And that— he does not expect.

That quiet assurance of trust. He’d anticipated— well, he isn’t quite certain, in truth. To be fought, perhaps. To be denied, or pressed, or ignored, but not instead greeted with the sight of a man so weary with regret that honesty seeps from him like blood from a struck injury.

It fits poorly in his silhouette, faith. It always has. But if he can offer anything to see it met, for someone so utterly unmoored in miring despair, he will.

But he swallows first, the sound of it dry. Thin.

“It will not be misplaced.”