Ever since I came here, something inside me had felt… different. Not loud. Not sudden. Not like flipping a switch. It was subtle—like a hum deep under my skin that I hadn't noticed at first. A quiet warmth, slow and unintrusive, but constant. It filled the spaces inside me I didn't know were hollow. Like water seeping into cracks. Like a low ember tucked behind my ribs, steady and calm.
I didn't know what to do with that kind of feeling. I wasn't used to it. I wasn't even sure I liked it. Maybe I did. Maybe I didn't. Maybe it just scared me. Not because it hurt, but because it didn't. Because it didn't ask anything from me. It didn't warn me. It didn't bite. It just… existed. And let me feel it, without punishing me for noticing. It was the first time I wasn't bracing myself for impact.
I remember the red-haired knight from yesterday. When I tripped trying to step down from the carriage and he caught me. I remember the exact moment I expected to feel it—the usual sickness that came when someone touched me. The invisible rot that always seemed to rise in the air. That weight in my chest, like someone had pressed their whole hand into it, pushing until I couldn't breathe properly.
It didn't matter how gentle the hands were. Or how soft the voices. The reaction always came. Like my body believed—before my mind could explain—that being held meant danger. Meant pain. Meant something would be taken. But that day, when his arms closed around me—It didn't happen.
There was no rot. No tightness. No static screaming in my chest. Just… warmth. A steady presence. Like a blanket that had been left in the sun. Like being pulled into shade after too much brightness. It made my heart slow down instead of speeding up. I didn't understand it. I still don't. But I remembered it. Because it was the first time being touched didn't hurt.
With Caelum, though… It was more than that. When he held me, the world didn't just stop hurting. It stopped altogether. Everything else—every noise, every shadow, every cold memory—just dropped away. Like the moment he wrapped his arms around me, the past couldn't follow.
No sharp words. No punishments. No footsteps outside the door when you weren't supposed to speak. Only warmth. Only quiet. Only him. It wasn't because he was a duke. It wasn't because he said kind things. It wasn't because of his title, or his house, or even his wealth. It was something else.
Maybe something in his voice. Or the way he waited, always waited. Or how he touched me like I wouldn't break—but also wouldn't have to hold myself together. Maybe it was the way he saw me. Like I was already real. Already enough. Was it because we were family? Because we shared the same blood? Was this what a brother felt like? What a father was supposed to be? Or… was this just what home felt like?
I was still curled in his lap when he saw me glance at the bottle on the table. I hadn't touched it yet. I'd only looked. Then looked away. I didn't even realize I had done it until I caught him watching me. He tilted his head slightly—just enough to show he was thinking. Not guessing. Just… understanding.
Then, in the same voice he used earlier—low, calm, with no edges—he asked: "Would you like me to feed you?"
The question didn't sting. It didn't embarrass me. It made my chest feel full again—but not with tears this time. With something I didn't have a name for. Something warm and careful. Something soft enough to feel safe.
I didn't nod. Didn't say yes. I just looked away. But he moved anyway. Like he'd heard the answer beneath the silence. He picked up the bottle and tested it gently against his wrist, like I'd seen some of the older orphans do with the babies back at the orphanage. Not rushed. Not clumsy. Just thoughtful.
I watched him. Not because I didn't trust him. But because I didn't understand what was happening to me. This whole day felt like someone had taken everything I knew and folded it into something new. Something I hadn't learned how to wear yet.
He brought the bottle to my lips. Not too fast. Not pushing. Just offering.
I opened my mouth slowly. Unsure. The milk touched my tongue. And it was… Warm. Not hot. Not too sweet. Not thick or sour or bland. Just… warm. A little vanilla. A little honey.
The taste melted in my mouth and didn't fight to be noticed. It didn't demand anything from me. It was something meant to soothe, not impress. And it did. I closed my eyes after the first few sips. I didn't mean to. I just did. I think my body knew it was allowed now. That it didn't need to stay alert. That I could lean. That I could breathe without waiting for the air to turn sharp again.
No one had ever fed me like this. Not even as a baby, probably. I didn't remember much about the early years. Only pieces. Only sounds and smells and the sharp memory of cold. But I knew what feeding looked like at the orphanage.
It was bowls scraped empty before you were ready. It was spoons pushed into mouths too fast. It was voices barking, "Hurry up," or "Don't make a mess," or "Stop crying, it's just food." It was getting skipped because you were too quiet. Or too slow. Or too small. It wasn't like this. This wasn't feeding. This was care. Real care. Given freely.
The bottle tilted gently as I drank, and Caelum kept his hand around me, his fingers rubbing slow circles on my back. His other arm held me steady, wrapped from beneath my knees to the curve of my spine.
I felt… small. But not in the wrong way. Not in the way I used to feel, curled under the stairs with nothing but a curtain to keep the cold out. This was different. This was being held on purpose. At some point, I sighed.
A soft, long breath. The kind that only comes when the body remembers it's allowed to rest. And then… Somewhere between one sip and the next… One breath and the next… I fell asleep. Just like that.
My head tucked under his chin. His arms around me. The bottle slipping from my hands. The taste of vanilla still on my tongue. The hum in my chest still warm. Still quiet. Still there. Like light. Pressing gently behind my ribs.