Daffy was breaking down, but somehow her grip on his arms was the thing grounding him now, the last bare thing keeping him together. She said there was nothing to forgive, but this didn’t feel fixed. But – if her hospital visit or the broken vase back at his workshop or Irene’s confession had finally shattered their peace, then at least the tension had finally broken with it, and now – now, maybe, they could start picking up the pieces.

The good, bad, everything in between. He had to smile at that, eyes crinkling in abject relief at her last sentence and the simple sureness of it. If everything else was still a mess, at least that felt clear for the both of them. If he had doubted before, he couldn’t any more. He breathed in the fresh scent of the carnations flooding the room again and remembered all the good again.

“Alright,” he said gently, to say that he would trust her on that – that there was nothing to forgive. No more looking back, then; what was done was done, and he would only look forwards from here on. He brushed some of the tears away from her cheek, but felt sapped of words to promise that by, onwards, so instead leant in to press a kiss softly to her mouth, too grateful yet to let her go.

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