Anthony wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. Every possible combination of words tripped and tumbled over themselves in his brain, too short-circuited to properly process things. He wanted to tell Victoire how sorry he was, how stupid he’d been for not giving her qualms consideration, how painful this pretending to be alright all the time was, but in the end he couldn’t manage any of it. In the end, she pulled all possible oxygen from his lungs first.

Hands came to frame his face and Anthony looked between one blue eye and another, still impossibly caught on how beautiful a shade they were. The whisper that followed was like a yank against his heartstrings, some devilish little hand reaching straight into his chest and tugging on the instrument until the threads threatened to snap. How could he possibly deny her anything when she asked like that?

Making an impulsive decision, the brunette stood and gathered Torie into his arms. His legs ached from their crouched position but he hardly felt them as he collected her as easily as lifting a quill. From there, careful not to jostle the injured ankle too much, he moved closer to the hearth. At least here there was some small grace in a dusty, dirty carpet - one that did not by any stretch of the imagination deign to be worth enough to touch her dress, but he had no choice. Anthony settled the pretty redhead just there before the fire, already warmth peeling off and hitting his back from this distance. Once there, he settled on the ground next to her - slightly appalled at where his mind had instantly jumped - and now a bit abashed. Still, it was better than before. Awkwardly, Anthony tugged her dress into place so that he wouldn’t be tempted to hike it up unduly. “Er— this might be a bit more comfortable than those crates,” he managed as an excuse, voice gravelly from disuse and desire.

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