He supposed, in a way, she was right. He  could fall in love, but he had to choose to propose. He could be angry, but he could choose whether or not to act on it. But feelings also had the potential to overwhelm, to consume. He’d never been one to let himself be ruled by emotions, but he was not one who suffered in silence with ease. If he was willing to accept his emotions, he was likely to act on them.

At her admission Lachlan could only frown. She had a right to be angry. They both did. In the days following their return, Lach had spent most of the time angry, too, but although he’d love nothing more than to get his hands on the suspect, he didn’t allow the rage to eat at him any longer. It was too exhausting—and he’d suffered enough exhaustion in a one-month period to last him a lifetime.

He reached across and placed a hand over her closed fist, giving it a gentle squeeze. His head dipped down as he sought her gaze. “It’s done. It’s over, and life will go on.” He was usually the brash one, the one who acted first and thought later. He’d never been particularly good at giving advice, and even less so at following it, but sometimes his method of avoiding further pain ended up being the healthier method. He didn’t miss that she’d mentioned sleep, and all he could think of was his restless nights too, but before she’d mentioned it he hadn’t considered that it was loneliness that kept him up.

“I don’t blame you. How could I? I’d be dead if you would’ve given up.” He didn’t care that they were in a bar; he allowed his palm to slip into hers at the first moment her fist relaxed, and he squeezed it again. “Maybe it’s the addition of the quidditch incident that made me realize, but nothing is going to be normal for a while. No need to act like it will be.”

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