It was not like him to conceal his thoughts from her. Even when he changed them, when he warped them into something more palatable, more acceptable, less distressing from a man like him – he thought it important to keep some measure of honesty between them.

Yet, as he walked at her side and tried not to let his mind linger on what they left behind them, he found that task was nearly unachievable.

Malachi glanced her way at the apology, noting the way she’d lowered her head, as if she’d done something shameful. Not even in the hardest days of his youth had he ever been ashamed of her. Not even when her actions, however typical of a child, got him in trouble; not even when she’d thrown that rock hard enough to draw blood in his ‘defense.’ Never had he punished her for any of her thoughts, her questions, her beliefs; not once had he even raised his voice.

Why, now, did she hang her head in shame, like his judgment was something to be feared?

“No, I want to escort you,” he insisted, giving her a gentle nudge with his arm.

If he was still around, that was.

“And if I ever can’t, I want you to be careful. I know that you can take care of yourself, but I worry about you too, you know.”

Malachi managed a smile, and after a moment it felt less forced. His head ached where his hair still covered the bruises.

“Now, please. You still haven’t told me about your meeting.”