He tenses as an instinctive fear flutters in the region of his stomach when she first throws her arms around him, but it's quickly trampled and overtaken by something stronger, something familiar; that need to be close that moves his arms to embrace her in reciprocation before he even consciously wills it.

"I'm sorry," he breathes, dazed. He's really here. He really made it. He has this back. For a moment, he has trouble believing it himself. His hold on her is likely too tight -- one arm wrapped crushingly around her ribs, the other flung across her shoulders, the back of her neck. He'd forgotten this, this desperation, the way his heart seemed to want to pick up a new career as a battering ram, the way she felt and smelled and sounded like this, in his arms. Or perhaps they'd both simply changed in the interim of separation. He struggles to press closer to her, despite their uncomfortable position on the floor. "I'm sorry."