Duskfire Glacier jimmy, you should switch it up

he watches her, listens. truly listens. the way she speaks, the way her voice dips and wavers just slightly when she revisits the past, as if some part of her is still caught there.
she does understand. maybe not all of it—not the nights spent starving, not the years spent wandering with nothing but his own will keeping him upright—but enough. enough to offer words he has never heard before.
"i’m sorry."
it is such a simple thing, but it lands heavier than he expects. no one has ever said that to him. no one ever thought to. the world had simply kept moving, kept demanding, never once pausing to acknowledge what he had lost. what had been taken.
he exhales slowly, something loosening in his chest. faust does not speak right away. instead, he leans into her, pressing his weight into her side—not forceful, not overwhelming, but enough that she would feel it. a quiet acknowledgment. a thank you.
he is not good with words. never has been. but this—this, he can do.
after a moment, he murmurs, voice low, rough at the edges.
i know you do.
and that, too, is enough.