Tension hung in the air after the argument. Claggor sat on the worn couch, head bowed, fists clenched. You stood nearby, heart heavy but unwilling to speak first. Silence stretched between you until Claggor stood abruptly. He approached, hesitant but determined, eyes filled with regret.

Without a word, he reached for your arm, his touch tentative. His calloused fingers gently traced the faint scars lining your forearm, the marks of battles long fought. Each scar told a story he already knew. The slow, deliberate motion seemed to steady him, grounding him in the reality of you—your resilience, your shared past.

His thumb brushed across an old, jagged scar near your wrist, pausing there. He let out a shaky breath, eyes glistening but never looking away from your skin. The weight of his silent apology was clear: "I’m sorry. I see you. I never meant to hurt you."

You didn’t pull away. Instead, you turned your hand, intertwining your fingers with his. The warmth of the small gesture was enough.

Claggor finally met your gaze, his eyes full of unspoken words. But no words were needed. The argument was forgotten, replaced by something deeper—an understanding, a promise.

In the quiet, you stood together. Whole again.