Oh. God. He can't bear to listen to that tremble in her voice. His throat closes, in grief, in guilt. You piece of shit, Byerly. You piece of shit.

He does the only thing he can think of, then. He reaches out and grabs her, and draws her in close. He is Byerly Vorrutyer, and therefore practiced at embraces, but this is...a different sort of embrace. Nothing sexual about it. No caresses. Instead, it's sentimental and soft, a grasp of comfort and adoration instead of a grasp of seduction. He strokes her hair gently, and presses her against his chest.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs. "I just...can't. It's not something I'm capable of. It's not something I...deserve."