[ that kind of... directness could be embarrassing. less so, when spoken from don. it's— more a given. a truth spoken aloud, simply existing; one that pulls at drops of warmth from within him left to settle, spreading them out along a canvas, painting a picture where sinclair could provide contentment.

she doesn't lie. he can believe her, and yet some part of him pulls. don't say it like that. not now. it thrums within him for a moment, for a reason he can't quite describe.

unvoiced, of course. undisturbed, to sit beside the good. he would never tell don to stop being her, and this is her. the fingers felt curling between his, the little rays of light that snuck in through the cracks of his shell. at some points blinding. at other points— ]

Then... if you think that, one day...

[ —inspiring scraps of courage and faith, rising with the breaths he collects to speak. ]

It wouldn't be wrong to let yourself feel that one day... right? Because you want to. Because it would make you content. Right then, you'd remember it. It would matter. And, after...

[ like now, it— matters. like now, he's— he persists, quelled, even among the anxieties and the things that push and claw at his mind. it would be this in a different form, but it would...

she had told him once that her life wasn't his to lose. her feelings weren't his to risk, either.

even still, that possibility is something he'd like for her. ]

... We'll find a way to remember those things.