[ Myriad responses spring to mind, all colored, he knows, by his own experiences, not hers. It feels inconceivable to him, to feel anything but hatred for a former captor, but what he knows of love, of the human heart, is that it can be a fickle, ruinous thing. He understands, for what it's worth, that their circumstances do differ. Had he been taken as a child, would he have felt the same way? Perhaps, perhaps. There's no way to know for certain.

Do you still wish for her approval? It seems too bold of him to ask, and too personal for her to answer. For better or for worse, such things have a way of getting under one's skin — the simple act of contemplation can become painful.

You had no choice. Too patronizing, even if he does believe it to be true.

I care for you. Too honest. (Too forward?)

A fourth recourse — to kiss her, to close the distance between them — occurs to him, too, but those are old habits flaring back up. An attempt to change the topic, even if he is increasingly tempted by the notion. ]

You— have people who do care for you, now, [ is what he settles on, instead, spurred to look at her again by the shift of her hand, the warmth of her cheek against his skin. (A small gesture, but a tender one.) Her expression is clear enough to read, and it makes him feel, annoyingly, concerned. ] I doubt anyone at our camp would let you face what's next alone. And not because they want anything from you. I imagine even our Gith friend would relish the chance to help you reclaim your past.

[ He squeezes her hand, studying her expression. He's never been good at comfort beyond the promise of a night spent together, in no small part because he hasn't really cared, before. And even now, his impulses lean toward promises of revenge, of blood spilt on her behalf rather than— whatever it is that she truly wants.

Well, fuck it— ]

I care for you, Shadowheart. I know, I know, one thing cannot so easily replace or temper the other, but— I do. And not as a blade, or some kind of protectress. Just ... as you.