“Fed love from silver spoons, reasons to be grateful.” You say it like it’s a joke, but your voice cracks anyway. Edmund doesn’t laugh. He just looks at you—the quiet kind of look that holds too much understanding for someone who’s never known hunger or fists or the sound of a door slamming because of something you said.

He grew up in a house with soft light and warm dinners and arms that always opened. You grew up learning how to fold yourself smaller, how to not ask twice.

You’re sitting shoulder to shoulder on a crumbling garden wall outside the girls’ school, your fingers stiff with cold. He’s already walked you home once tonight, but you’d both turned back the moment the lights flickered off, unwilling to say goodnight just yet.

“You think that makes me lucky,” he says eventually. “That I was raised warm and wanted. I was. I know that. But it doesn’t mean I didn’t feel the world go cold, too.”

You don’t respond. Not right away. There’s a pause, long enough for him to wonder if he’s said the wrong thing. But then your hand slides toward his, hesitant, like you’re still not sure you’re allowed.

“You never flinch when someone raises their voice,” you murmur. “You don’t say sorry every time you take up space.”

He turns to look at you. “You’re worth space. Worth warmth. Worth someone who doesn’t make you feel like love has to be earned.”

It doesn’t fix everything. But you let your head fall against his shoulder, anyway. And when he shifts to press a kiss to your temple, it doesn’t feel like charity. It feels like truth.