"…a little," he admitted.
That was all it took.
Alina's heart shattered and bloomed at the same time. She lifted his hands carefully and pressed the softest kiss to each scraped palm, her touch reverent and protective, as if sealing away the pain with nothing but care.
Later, the soft light of the living room fell on a different scene. Georgia was on the couch with Lucien. A small white box with a red cross was open beside her. In it were useful, gentle things: clean cloths, a bottle that smelled clean and sharp, rolls of white bandages.
Lucien sat very straight, like a little soldier. He did not fidget. He did not cry. He gave his hands to Georgia and let her work. She took a cloth, warm with water, and began to clean his scraped palms. He only winced, a tiny flutter at the corner of his eye. But Georgia saw it. She saw everything.
"You're doing really well," she said, her voice a smooth river stone. "Braver than most grown-ups I know."
