Look a squirrel

One corner of his mouth twitched—just slightly, almost imperceptible.

A poultice, huh? His voice was low, rough around the edges, but steady. He exhaled through his nose, something like dry amusement ghosting through the sound. Think it’ll cure years of repressed emotions, or just knock me out long enough to ignore them?

The flicker of humor was brief, subtle—but it was there. This surely meant he was listening.

As she finished speaking her heart.

It was Deyran's turn, but there was nothing left to say.

Instead, he held still, the firelight casting shifting shadows across his face as he absorbed Madeline’s words. His jaw tensed, then eased. His hands, once curled into fists at his sides, slowly unfurled.

He let out a quiet breath through his nose. Not quite a sigh, not quite relief—just an exhale, controlled and measured. His gaze flickered downward for a moment, then returned to hers, steady.

I won’t, he said, his voice firm but not harsh, the sincerity behind it cutting through the air. There was something resolute there, a promise to carry forward what she had said—not just because she asked, but because he truly meant it.

After a beat, he looked down at the ground briefly, as if he were trying to collect the thoughts that still lingered in his mind.

Anything else I can do for you? he asked, his voice steady but with a hint of genuine interest. He wasn’t rushing. The question wasn’t born out of impatience or a need to leave but from a genuine interest in being of service to her.