[ Hm. His stomach does something unpleasant at her admission; he takes no joy in being right, in this case. He wants to tell her not to, but he knows a similar flavor of self-loathing well enough that demanding it to stop is not the way of things.

One merely has to outlast it. ]

I'm still here. [ Just. So she can focus on that, maybe. ]

I... remember what you smell like. I look at the portrait you drew. I look around at all the unfamiliar things and flex my fingers. I conjure an image of you and I remind myself that I would fight for you.