She had let go of him; it felt like something was slipping away from him now. He wanted to grasp at her hand again, press a hand to her wrist or her arm or something to tell her he was still here for her. As here as he could be.

“It’ll be spring, I think,” he offered quietly, and then joked – “For the flowers, if nothing else.”

He looked at her face again as they reached the museum, bemused. “Well?”

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