The crack in his voice is sharp reminder; the suffering she felt was his, years of his, and how fair was it to force him to carry the burden of her heart when he was already so saddled with the weight of his?

This time it's her hand combing through his hair, sweat-damp and stiff with grime, split-ends, but who cares about something like that? She lifts her head, her hands smoothing into flat palms against his back. She shifts in his arms. "You're here," she murmurs, quiet into the shell of his ear, calmer now. "You're here now. That's enough."