“Maldito idiota,”she breathes. An insult in her tongue. “You don’t want to help me and I don’t want to be mocked.” She tucks the scroll against her chest and steps back, clearly moving to leave.
The warmth vanishes, and something in my belly lurches.
Before I can think better of it, I grab her hand.
She stiffens, her fingers caught in mine, the heat of her palm grounding me in place.
"I know I don’t say things the right way," I murmur, twining my fingers with hers. "I know I keep making mistakes."
She looks down at our hands, pulling away again, but instead it changes the position of our limbs and our small fingers interlock—hers, the ones that had been stitched back on. Mine, the ones I lost half of in the war.
My gut clenches.
I squeeze lightly, almost as if I were still holding her hand to create a proper vow. "But I want to do better. I will do better at being kind, so you know we can be friends. That’s a promise."
Arlet’s eyes flick to mine, searching.
I don’t know if she believes me. But she doesn’t pull away.
"Help me?"
I nod.
"Why?" Her voice is unsteady. "You keep doing that—you keep helping me. But you also seem to hate me."
“Maybe I don’t want you wandering around the city with a frown." I purse my lips. “So, what do you say? Will you let me help?”
She bites her lip. Her small finger twitches.
“Fine. But I will leave if you’re rude again,” she says.
I grin.
"What male friends do you have?" I ask after a moment.
She pauses, unsure.
"I am acquainted with many, but friends with few. I’ve always felt more at ease around women. Estela has been my primary confidant for as long as I can remember."
I knew that. While I wouldn’t say she avoids men, she is… different in their presence.
"So, what are you looking for?" I press.
She inhales slowly, her breath rising against the silence between us.
"I want to make someone happy. I want to have someone to create a home with." A pause. "I want to give someone children."
Her words exist for someone else. To give. To be a part of another’s story.
Didn’t she realized she deserves her own?
"It sounds like you want to make someone incredibly happy," I murmur.
She nods, the sadness retreating.
"Yes,” then she bites her lip. “I’m sorry. I think I’ve misjudged you because I didn’t expect you, of all people, to understand that.”
But maybe I do.