[ To say it feels like an intrusion is not quite right. To say he resents it is entirely wrong. But there’s still, in his chest, a protective curl—a hand around something fragile in a jostling crowd, or a writer over an early draft before it’s ready for anyone else’s scrutiny.

On his face there’s only a smile, faint and sympathetic. ]

As well as I can.

[ A piece of your soul, carved off of you, out in the world and vulnerable to hurt—that’s what Byerly said it meant to love someone. ]

You know, I don’t think anything is ever ruined. [ A little hyperbolic, but he’s that sort of creature. ] Nothing is the end of the world except the end of the world. Everything else is repaired or becomes something new.

But I know it does not feel that way from the middle of it.

[ He holds a hand out for hers. ]