I frown slightly.
I don’t remember deciding to do that.
But I must have.
“And at the Manor,” she continues. “When that man came out. You stepped away.”
The gate. The hinge. The sound of the door behind us.
I’d thought about the interruption. About the conversation that followed.
I hadn’t thought about the distance.
“It’s nothing,” she says quickly. “It’s probably just me noticing things that don’t mean anything.”
“No,” I say.
The word comes out firmer than I expect.
She goes quiet.
“It meant something,” I continue. “Because it hurt you.”
She doesn’t argue.
Which tells me everything.
“I didn’t realise I was doing that,” I admit.
The truth sits heavy in my chest. Not as an excuse. As a failure.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
The words feel insufficient, but they’re the only ones I have.
“You don’t need to apologise,” she says gently. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
I close my eyes briefly.
I had.
Not intentionally.
But intention doesn’t undo consequence.
“You don’t need to protect me from it,” I say quietly.
She doesn’t answer.
“If I ever make you feel like that again,” I continue, choosing the words carefully, “I want you to tell me.”
She’s quiet.
I can hear the faint sounds of the shop behind her. A drawer closing. Footsteps. Ordinary life continuing while everything here has shifted slightly out of alignment.
“I mean it,” I add. “Don’t wait. Don’t try to protect me from it.”
“I wasn’t protecting you,” she says softly.