She pulled her hands away from his, and Alfred thought he'd lost her. He expected her to push him aside to get to the floo powder, or head for the door. She didn't, though; she stayed, which was surprising. Then she spoke, which was even more surprising. What she said wasn't, though, not particularly. He'd known there had to be something that had gotten her this upset, and it made sense that it had to do with her man. And it made sense, too, that she'd reacted so strongly when she flooed in and saw him packing. It wasn't about him at all; it was about her and the bloke with the bookstore, and that sentiment: I'm not ready to. She didn't have to specify to what — they both knew everything that encompassed without putting it into words.

"I know," he said, voice soft and full of empathy. He did know — he'd been there, he'd lived it. He'd made promises to Lily Huddleston and then gone off on what was expected to be a multi-year voyage in spite of them, because despite what he'd thought, he hadn't been ready then, either. He'd wanted the thrill of adventure and the wind and the sea more than he'd wanted to be with her. Maybe Lily hadn't been the right girl, but it was more likely that he hadn't been the right boy. He'd been a different person, before the Sycorax — he hadn't really been capable of falling in love, actual love, until he'd returned and met Zelda.

"It's alright," he said softly. "You don't have to be ready."