She'd forgotten just how warm he always seemed to be. He's thinner than she remembers, a little more narrow, and so many of the little things are different, or distorted in the distance of time. He smells different, his hair is too long, his voice hits the wrong pitch, his body's been whittled down so much. It's too much to take in, and she's terrified of waking up.

"I'm sorry," she echoes, muffled words into his clothing. "I didn't believe you." Didn't believe in him, didn't trust him, didn't put any stock into his promises.