It's more awkward than the heartfelt scenes of long-awaited reconciliation movies and books would spin, where everything always seemed to fall back into place.

He shifts over the carpet, shuffling so he is less off to the side, repositioning himself so she is in the fork of his knees, making it easier to hold her. He clings to her, needy and fumbling, unable to decide where his hands should rest, unsure as to how he fits together with her anymore -- inexperienced and hampered by nerves all over again, as if he'd reverted to being a stupid teenager in the span of a few minutes. He wants to say something meaningful, but the words stick at the back of his throat, refusing to be articulated. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know what to do. He's messed this up so thoroughly already.

In the end, what comes out of his mouth is very simple, after a few minutes of struggle; he doesn't think about how it never ended well to say it before, doesn't even really decide that it is what he should say. It slips out, thoughtless as an exhale.

"I love you," is muttered into the side of her neck, against her pulse.