So we take the stairs together, his hand warm in mine and the whole way down he works on his French, low murmured words shared between us like a guarded secret. It's only when we get to the bottom of the second set of stairs that the warmth and humor dries up from him, leaving behind the man they call the Butcher. He’s harder, none of the man I know left in his face, but I still love this version of him. How can I not, when he protects me so fiercely?
