[ He could learn to live like this. It's better than the alternative, when the alternative is not being here at all, when it means being someplace where he can't see her smile, smell her hair or hear her voice— even when it sounds sad and broken and carries the sobs and the tears she's crying, like now.

He shakes his head, doesn't let go of her but leans his head back still, turns it just enough that he can press his lips to her temple, then tries to look at her face. She's crying and he doesn't like that, but that's not even what hurts the most. What hurts the most is what she says next.

It's not what he wants to hear. It hurts like a stab to the chest, twenty seconds into this meeting and she's already talking about escape routes, about fleeing plans, about just dropping her whole life to run wherever she has to with him, just so he can be safe. (He can never be safe.) This isn't why he came here, and God, maybe this is the reason why he shouldn't have come in the first place. He still smiles but it's impossible not to see the misery behind it, the ache, his breath hitching and his voice wavering when he barely manages to stop himself from crying too. ]

I'm fine, Betty. No one's coming for me. It's just me. It's just— you think I'd have come here if I had to run? You know I wouldn't do that to you.