He went back to the bathroom, but halted, as the sound of muffled cries infiltrated the hallway. He felt intrusive, as if he was bearing witness to a moment that wasn’t meant for him to see. Messiah didn’t know what to do with emotions. It had never been his job to cater to the feelings of another person. He had never wanted the responsibility; because in his mind, he knew he would be no good at it. Defending her honor, he could do, but restoring it felt like a challenge that was meant for a father. She had none. Ethic tried to play the role, but Messiah knew Morgan resisted it every step of the way. He balled his hand, using the knuckle of one finger to rap softly on the door. Again, out of habit, because she couldn’t hear him. That was the problem. He didn’t know how to be with her. It was so easy to forget that she was deaf. He pushed the door open, slightly, and peeked his head in, coyly, not wanting to pry. He hoped she was decent. He only wanted to help; and if he was honest, he desperately wanted her to stop crying, because hearing her was chipping away at something inside his chest. He hurt with her, as if they shared a connection where one felt the other’s torment. It was odd - at least to a man who extended his time and effort at a minimum. This feeling was new.

Her cries stopped, suddenly, as their eyes met, as if she had been caught being hurt… exposed… being human. She sat on the side of the toilet, the bloody dress still on her.

He stepped inside and leaned against the door. He wished he had a mother or sister who could help him deal with this girl. Morgan, with her vulnerability and her beauty, was knocking at the door inside him that he kept locked. She was asking him to love her, without saying anything at all, and Messiah didn’t want to; but surely, this ache he had on the left side of his chest, behind all the brawn and muscle, was love.