Elias's breath caught in his throat.
For a heartbeat, he said nothing. The words hung heavy in the space between them, impossibly simple and unbearably complicated.
His hands, those careful, always-composed hands, curled ever so slightly at his sides.
He didn't dare move. Didn't dare breathe.
"Master" he finally said, voice barely above a whisper, "you cannot say things like that."
"Why not?" Cassius's voice held none of his usual arrogance. No teasing lilt. Just quiet conviction.
"Because it's true? Because it makes things harder for you? Or because you feel the same, and you don't know what to do with it?"
Elias's mouth parted, but no sound came. He could feel his pulse, loud in his ears, drowning out every carefully built wall inside him.
This wasn't a moment he could plan for. Not a line he could follow.
"I have spent my life serving you," he said, slowly, trying to cling to what structure he had left. "Working for you. Watching over you. That role—it defines me."
