[ he does. he considers her special, and particularly for who she is, but she is also that to him. she is right; he does not feel anything halfway and that includes love. it includes pain, when they often go hand-in-hand. he has felt both and feels both now. it's the blessing and the curse of what they are: he loves camille just as strongly and intensely as he has loved caroline, but that doesn't make either of them any less to him. any less special at all.

it's precisely that he wants her to know, what he feels she should feel: that she is worth more. it's what he's felt from the beginning.

it's what he feels now, his mouth forming a rueful smile at her banter. it's what he feels as she answers his question, the workings of her mind and her worries pulling him in with admiration and worry that touches him in those tender spots he can sometimes forget he has; that he had forgot he had. he remembers those pieces for her, with her: compassion, desire, life.

it might make her miserable; she's right. but she would know, as she deserves to. he lets her think out loud without interruption. his eyes move to her, his heart lifting into his throat with damnable hope and too-quick passion at the undefinable way she regards whatever is happening between them, giving it breath with her words. his own is caught; it takes him a moment to temper his eagerness. ] Of course. [ they're nearly onto the another floor. with no other ideas, he gestures down the hall. ] The tea room, perhaps? [ they all would be deserted by now. ]

It might, you know, [ he intones, after a beat. ] I certainly don't have many... [ he searches for the apt word. ] happy stories to tell. [ he's the villain in most of hers. his lashes flutter; he means this. ] But I promise. I'll be honest.