Lunch was ready before we could do anything "as a family."
Caelum had asked if I wanted to spend time together—something quiet, something warm, something simple. But we never got that far. Because I cried. Because I clung. Because something in me cracked wide open and wouldn't stop shaking. And he didn't mind. Not once.
He let me cry as long as I needed. He babied me without shame, without sighs, without impatience. He just held me. Spoke to me in soft words and brushed his fingers through my hair. Let me cry until I forgot I was crying. Let me cling until I forgot I was holding on. Let me need him without making me explain why.
And then—quietly—a knock. A pause. A servant's voice, muffled through the door.
"Forgive the interruption, Your Grace. Lunch is ready."
I didn't lift my head from Caelum's chest. I didn't speak. He didn't answer right away either. His arms were still wrapped around me, warm and protective. I felt the rise of his chest under my cheek as he sighed—not in irritation, but like someone who didn't want to move until I was ready.
"It can wait," he whispered.
But it didn't have to. I pulled back slightly, blinking slowly. My eyes still felt warm and swollen, but I wasn't crying anymore. Not loudly. Not in sobs. Just soft hiccups, spaced far enough apart to count as breathing again.
"I'm ready," I whispered.
He looked at me, like he was checking every part of that answer. Not doubting me. Just making sure. Then he nodded once. "Alright." He shifted me gently, stood without letting go, and carried me out of the quiet sitting room and toward the dining hall.
The servants didn't say anything when we entered. They looked up, of course. Their eyes found us. But no one stared. No one asked if something had happened. No one said "You've been crying" or "Are you alright?"
They just bowed. Set the table. Finished their preparations. Made room for both of us. Caelum took his usual seat at the end of the long table. He kept me in his arms as he sat—adjusting his posture so I wouldn't slip or feel awkward. His hand settled at my back, rubbing slow, familiar circles.
I didn't sit in my own chair. I could have. But I didn't want to. At the same time, I didn't want to seem childish. I didn't want to seem clingy. I wasn't a baby. I was three. And three-year-olds… didn't cry for no reason. Didn't hold onto people during meals. Didn't sit in someone's lap like the world might disappear if they let go.
I didn't want to ask for too much. I didn't want to be too much. But I wanted to stay there. I didn't understand why. I didn't understand anything right now. I just knew that everything felt warm and terrifying and full. My chest still ached from crying, but not in the same way as before. It was like I had opened something and didn't know how to close it again.
Like I had said too much without using any words. Like I had let someone see me—and now I was afraid they'd step away. I didn't know how to make it stop. I didn't know how to be okay yet. So I stayed. And Caelum didn't let go.
Even when I shifted slightly, unsure. Even when I mumbled, "You can eat. I can move."
He just pulled me in closer. "I'll eat when you're ready," he said.
He sounded calm. Gentle. Like nothing about this was inconvenient. Like this—me in his arms—was the most natural thing in the world. I still tried to pull back, just a little. He didn't stop me. But I could feel the way his hand stayed at the small of my back, like an anchor. Like something that said: You don't have to go far.
I stared at the table. My bowl of soup sat untouched in front of me. A silver spoon beside it. Steam still curling from the surface in gentle spirals. I wasn't hungry. Not even a little. My throat still felt thick, my stomach folded in on itself. Crying had drained whatever interest I had in food. But I didn't want to be rude.
I didn't want Caelum to think I didn't appreciate everything. I didn't want the servants to feel like their work was wasted. So I reached for the spoon. I managed two bites. Then I stopped. It wasn't the soup's fault. It was warm, light, full of soft vegetables and hints of rosemary. But I couldn't swallow anymore. I just… couldn't.
Tilly stepped forward quietly. She bowed her head slightly and reached for the bowl. She didn't ask questions. She didn't scold me for not eating. She simply replaced the bowl with a clean plate and set a glass of water next to it.
Then, she paused—looked at Caelum—then at me. "Would you prefer milk, young master?"
I didn't know how to answer. But Caelum answered for me, gently. "Warm," he said. "He's had a rough morning."
Tilly nodded and disappeared. She returned moments later with a bottle. Not a cup, not a glass. A soft, curved bottle with warm milk inside. Steam fogged the edges of the glass. The scent was gentle, soothing. She placed it beside Caelum, where I could reach it if I wanted to. Then she stepped back.
Caelum eventually started eating. He did so with one hand, carefully, the other still resting on me. His movements were slow, thoughtful. Not rushed. Not distracted. He wasn't eating to fill himself. Just enough to keep the rhythm of the meal going.
I sat against him, my head resting under his chin. I didn't move much. I didn't talk. But I listened to the soft clink of his fork, the rustle of napkins, the faint murmurs of the servants moving around the edges of the room.
No one rushed. No one acted like I was a delay. No one whispered behind their hands. Gabel passed by once, refilling Caelum's water. I expected a glance. A pause. But all he did was bow, serve, and leave. It didn't feel like I was being watched. It felt like I was being held.
After Caelum finished, the servants returned to clean the table. Quiet hands gathered dishes, swept crumbs into linens, exchanged plates for polished ones.
I didn't know what I was doing anymore. I didn't know why I was acting like this. I didn't understand why I clung to him so hard, or why I cried for so long, or why being touched like this made something inside me feel like it could fall apart and build itself again at the same time.
I didn't know what it meant to be a child. I didn't know what it meant to be held without being corrected. To be comforted without having to deserve it. To be seen and not sent away. I had never felt like this before. And that scared me.
Because what if I couldn't stop needing it? What if I became too much? What if I stopped being the quiet, easy boy they all expected me to be? I tried to shrink against him. To make myself smaller again. But his hand just rubbed circles over my back. Soft. Certain. Safe. Like he already knew. Like he was saying—You can stay like this. Even if you don't understand why.