Words come spilling out of her, and he feels them hit like a flurry of punches to the gut. The stew on the stove is starting to boil; he doesn't notice. "You—"
Of everything he's never allowed himself to imagine, this is the thing he's most careful not to let his thoughts touch. (His parents had been happy, he knows, for the short time they had, and he's always wanted... but there was his duty, and his career, and always another criminal on the run to track down, and the days flowed into each other and when he'd thought of it at all it had been with a certain detached wistfulness for a life he'd never live.)
He blinks rapidly, mouth opening and closing again as he looks down at her. "I'm sorry?"
She didn't just say that, did she? Is he imagining this whole thing, somehow? Is it some new dream, and he'll wake up embarrassed at how great his longing is that he'd dreamed it at all?
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Of everything he's never allowed himself to imagine, this is the thing he's most careful not to let his thoughts touch. (His parents had been happy, he knows, for the short time they had, and he's always wanted... but there was his duty, and his career, and always another criminal on the run to track down, and the days flowed into each other and when he'd thought of it at all it had been with a certain detached wistfulness for a life he'd never live.)
He blinks rapidly, mouth opening and closing again as he looks down at her. "I'm sorry?"
She didn't just say that, did she? Is he imagining this whole thing, somehow? Is it some new dream, and he'll wake up embarrassed at how great his longing is that he'd dreamed it at all?