It wasn't like Yaxley to be so open to comfort; usually she was insistent on putting on some display of resilience, to force him to acknowledge that she was independent and didn't need him. That dynamic began to shift the moment she'd appeared in the gardens of his home, battered and delirious, but he knew that this was different. She was completely conscious and choosing to lean into him, to let him hold her, and he knew it was significant even if he couldn't pinpoint why. He fell backwards into a sitting position and pulled her tighter against him, his arms snaking under her arms to encircle her waist. He pressed his temple to hers, his nose brushing the top of her ear as she sobbed half-incoherent apologies.

"Enough," he said quietly, his hands moving in circles on the small of her back. This was too intimate by any society's standards; he doubted even the poorest of the poor could get away with such closeness between a man and a woman without scandalizing themselves. Yet he couldn't bring himself to care in the moment. "I'm a grown man. You don't need to worry about me."

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