It felt like a chasm was opening in Ben’s chest. Being in this space with her and being so close to her, knowing that this wasn’t something he’d be able to do ever again, was bad enough. Her words were salt to the wound. The last thing he wanted was to hear that she was miserable. He’d tried to do everything in his power to prevent that, but — of course — it hadn’t been enough. He wished he hadn’t had this moment. Wished Melody hadn’t approached him at the party and pulled him in here, or confided anything in him. Wished these little rooms didn't exist, or that none of the waitstaff had bothered to tell either him or Melody.

He really should have found something else to occupy him, during the time between their meeting on the rooftop and her wedding. Anything would have done. He could have left the country, or started a new hobby, or hell, even gone on a bender and ended up soaked in alcohol and regret. It still would have been better than opening the wound like this when there was nothing he could do to fix any of it.

But they were here, and Melody didn’t need to hear how much it hurt him to be here — she needed comfort. With one arm still wrapped around her, Ben reached his other hand up to lightly stroke her hair. “Okay,” he said simply. “I’m here. We’re here. Let’s take a minute.”