A thousand small thoughts unfurled in Ilaria's mind when that single word left his lips. Her breath snagged and would not fall back into place, caught between disbelief and fragile ache in her chest. His head weighed against her hands; his fingers closed around hers like chains.
Sorry? He just said sorry?
This was not the Levan she knew. The man whose face was almost an honest ledger, who answered in dry lines and measured silences. She wanted to ask what happened last night, to make him look at her, to demand an explanation, but his body stayed bent away, making her feel helpless as if she was the one in chaos.
When he spoke again, the sound was low, so low she might have mistaken it for a prayer if she did not know better.
"I should stop letting things twist me this way." His words were a murmur, more to himself than to her. "I should have thought before speaking. Saints— I should've just done what I always do, put it in order, keep it clean, keep it distant."
