His hold on her hand loosens, but the look in his eyes is still sharp, still confused, still left in the dark about a lot of things. And the impatience lingers in the short sigh he exhales.

She'll resign herself to him not understanding; he'll resign himself to her not trying to explain.

"Okay," he murmurs.

He reaches out with his free hand to cup her cheek and tilt her face up. His touch is warm, affectionate. The cuff of his sleeve smells faintly of burning embers.

What'm I gonna do with you? his expression seems to ask, his eyes growing almost imperceptibly softer.

Her grief and guilt and the things she's seen have aged her beyond her years, and it's moments like this that he's reminded that she's still so young. She doesn't need a guy like him.

But he just couldn't let her go.