Wheeling Gull Isle immunity, long overdue

He accepts his gift, but she can see on his face that something is wrong. Like a deer in the headlights, he winces and stares at her when her voice is even slightly raised.
He seems hurt. The guilt had formed a funnel cloud deep within her gut as her own stomach twists and turns.
She is silent, for a moment, lips parted, before she finally says, Is okay, you're safe, in the quietest voice she can muster. I won't hurt you. I'm sorry.
It's then that it dawns on her: maybe someone had hurt him. Maybe that's why God brought them here.
And she's not sure why, but she starts to cry, and it's not out of jealousy or anger or resentment but pain, pain for him and the guilt of making him believe she would hurt him.
When he comes closer and plants a kiss to her chin, her little arms stretch out and engulf the small darkling in an embrace. It is warm, but frightening and foreign, perhaps for both of them. I'm sorry, she murmurs, is not your fault.
Perhaps sometimes love is something that is learned, not handed to you.