My hands cradle his face like he's made of glass. His skin is warm, damp with the tears I keep failing to stop.
"Angel," I whisper again, my voice breaking on his name.
"Please. Tell me why you're crying."
He doesn't speak. His lips press together, a thin, trembling line. His gaze drops, escaping mine, fleeing to somewhere I can't follow.
The silence is unbearable.
I take a breath, slow and steady.
My hand slides from his face to his wrist, wrapping gently around the delicate bones. I pull him, not with force, but with a quiet, urgent tenderness.
His steps are light, nearly soundless on the marble. Mine are heavy with the weight of my own dawning guilt.
We enter the living room. The soft light, the familiar furniture—it's meant to be comforting. It feels like a confessional.
I guide him to the couch and he sits, sinking into the cushions like a wounded bird folding its wings.
A servant appears, bowing. I don't look at her. "Bring water," I say. She nods and disappears.
