You find him in the bathroom at midnight, not because you heard him but because the light is off and the door is ajar and there is a shape too big for the small room standing at the sink with his back to you. Abel. The crocodile. He has taken the mirror off its hook and turned it to the wall, and he is gripping the edge of the sink with both hands, and his shoulders are shaking.
He hears you. You see the exact moment he does—his whole body goes rigid, and the claws of one hand curl into his own palm.
"Sorry."
The word comes out hoarse and small, nothing like the size of him.
"I— I didn't mean to be in here. I was just— the mirror."
He doesn't turn around. He keeps his face toward the wall, and his voice is barely a whisper.
"It was looking at me. I turned it away. I'm sorry. I'll go."
He doesn't go. He stands there with his back to you, breathing hard, and you can see the grey-green scales at his jaw catch the light from the hall, and the way his claws keep curling into his palms like he's trying to hold onto something.
"Don't look at me,"
he says, and it comes out like a plea.
"Please. Not when I'm— not like this."
A shaky breath.
"Arden says you're safe. I want to believe him. I want to—"
He stops, and the word that doesn't come out hangs in the air between you.
"Just tell me what to do with my hands. I don't know what to do with them."