theleadingman | avalon: inbox

["I feel like a part of me is dying every day. ... I never should have said anything to you."]

Aerith, that's not—

[And for the first time in the months that she's known him, his voice breaks— just a little, and only for a moment, but it wavers briefly with the sort of emotion that he never allows to come to the surface, soft and just a little bit desperate.

He can hear the shift in her voice, and he hates that he's caused it.

Suddenly, the island is no longer between them. Somewhere along the way, he'd turned off the burned as something in the back of his head insisted that this was not the time for further interruptions, but both of his hands come to rest on her shoulders as he stands behind her. It's different from when he'd reached for her wrist, cautious and tentative and knowing full well that she might shrug him him away— she'd be well within her rights, to be certain, but in this moment, his focus isn't on his own feelings or his pride.]

That's not what I meant in the least— and it's not about how I feel, it's about how you do. It's—

[He knows how he feels, but still finds himself at a loss for words. Expressing things like this, real and difficult things, has never been his forte.]

I just... wanted to help make your life here one worth living. Conceited, I suppose.

[She doesn't even have a chance to stop him. Not a chance to protest. Aerith folds her hands together tightly, pressing them up against her chest. She could shrug him off. Tell him to get lost. Both of those are more harsh than she rightfully is, however, and she's trying very hard just to keep herself together.

She hates how he sounds then. That's her doing, too. All of this is her doing. That's inevitable, isn't it? It's a stupid, foolish idea that she thinks she can even find happiness and hold onto it. For a day? Maybe. Only to be riddled by the immense guilt that follows after. It's not worth it. But that isn't his fault. She doesn't hold it against him.

Aerith has to force herself to hold onto something that is like composure. A rocky foundation to be sure, but something is better than nothing. In the back of her mind, she thinks of the tea, but that's a greatly distant thought.

Slowly she shakes her head.]

I know what you were trying to do. I know that you didn't mean any harm. You didn't do anything wrong, Balthier. The issue was never you to begin with.

[A part of him thinks he should step away, give her space, but a much larger part cannot bear the thought. He can tell that it's taking more effort than she would want him to know to keep herself together, that her composure could break just as easily as he fears his own might at this point.]

In all this, you're still the one reassuring me.

[It shouldn't be that way, not when she's hurting so badly, has been for who knows how long— and that's the exact reason he worries as he does, because she will give of herself again and again until there's nothing left as dread and knowing hollow her out from within.]

I'm not sorry you told me. You shouldn't be, either.

[He doubts that will change much. She'll feel guilt over it regardless, still worried about how her lot impacts others and determined she would be better off to suffer it alone.]

I don't know that I can convince you that you don't have to do all of this on your own, but there's nothing I wish for more.

It's... never been a case of thinking I didn't have a choice in the matter. I chose to handle things on my own. I chose not to involve you or anyone else. I chose not to permit your input.

[Drawing in a breath, she releases it in a sigh taking the moment to worm her way past him onto her feet, though she does stay footsteps within reach. It's her own home. Why should she have to be the one to run.]

Which you've seen fit to remind me of several times.

[For just a moment, her fingers curl in where they reside. Somehow, and she isn't sure how, she keeps her gaze on his. She sounds so much more even than she feels, but it's all so practised. Aerith can even smile through her suffering and so few would be any the wiser.]

I never wanted this for you. Part of me wanted to be fooled into thinking that I could handle it. That I wouldn't... ruin it all. But I know myself. Me being who I am, what I am, how I am. It's just a disaster.

[She shakes her head.]

I keep going and I keep pressing because if I don't, if I stop, maybe I'll never be able to start again. I bury myself in others not just because I feel like it's the right thing to do, but because I need it. I'm not strong at all. I'm selfish and I'm a coward.

[She lets that linger for some moments as she stares up at him and finally she leaves a hand atop the island for little more than the need to anchor herself to the present.]

I think you've sufficiently pulled enough out of me now.

[He releases his hold immediately when she makes it clear she intends to pull away, taking a single step back as she gets to her feet. It's not his intention to make her feel trapped, but he feels a distinctive pang of guilt when she looks at him that way, reminds him of his own sharp words. He'd been unfair, perhaps, but he doesn't regret having come here, even if it means he now has to watch her keep herself steady when he knows she's feeling anything but inside.

"I'm selfish and I'm a coward."

Familiar words— familiar feelings, though he doesn't say so. His own days had never been so clearly numbered, not the way hers were. He had been haunted by the past alone, while her own ghosts include the future, or lack thereof.]

You're not a coward. You're afraid. There's a difference.

[Who wouldn't be? That could never be held against her.]

I apologize if I was harsh before— but I'm not leaving.

[She doesn't have to tell him anything more— she won't, he's certain, because she's said so much more than she ever wanted to, but he cannot bring himself to leave her in this state. Even if she were to refuse to speak to him for the remainder, he would stay.]

Edited 2021-11-16 08:22 (UTC)

Can't it be both.

[It should be a question and it's not. She doesn't feel strong at all. She feels like she's grasping for strength and little things here and there are making that fall through her hold. When she does manage to grab it again, will it be too late? No. Of course not. This particular moment, the one where she stands with one Ivalician sky pirate in her kitchen, will not be the norm. She doesn't believe it herself, but she understands that she's allowed to have a moment where she isn't carrying the weight of everything around her.

Where he leaves himself has her regard him thoughtfully. She knows why he wants to stay. She's almost certain she's had her allotment of handsome boyfriend'ish companion with sharp, but necessary words. She shakes her head at him, though it seems largely dismissive in nature.]

I don't need you to stay here. I'm sure Nanaki or Tifa will be here soon. I'm not... really keen on the idea of you looking after me because you feel as if you need to.

[She's not keen on the idea of him looking after her at all. But she understands why he wants to. It's not a need. It's all to do with feelings.]

It's not because I feel I need to.

[The correction comes swiftly, bordering on sharp, though he respects the small distance she's put between them. It takes every fiber of his being to do so; part of him is desperate to offer some kind of comfort and immediately disappointed in both the fact that he doesn't know how and that whatever he did offer wouldn't be anywhere close to enough.]

I want to be here.

[He's wanted to be here for weeks, and knowing she would much rather keep him at a distance, he fears that once he does walk out that door, it truly will be the last he sees of her for quite some time. She won't let him pull a stunt like this one again, he's sure, and she's set on her course of action.]

I want to be with you. We can better protect one another together. You may not agree with that, but even if it's just for a little while longer, I want to be here.

You can't—

[Aerith hesitates for a breath. Several, in fact. As she considers how to better address him, she scrapes her teeth over her bottom lip.]

You can't say things like that to me. You can't do this 'I want to be with you' talk. I know that you mean it, so it isn't like I don't know that you're being serious when you say it.

[There is the distinct possibility that he doesn't mean it the way she's taking it. That sweetly, sentimental adoration that she knows she feels for him on some level. He could simply mean it as simply as wanting to be in the same room as her. She doesn't think that's what he means, though.

Lifting a hand, she rubs her temple with a sigh.]

Think it all you want, feel it all you want, but you can't say it to me. I can't hear it. I can't listen to it.

[He could attempt to refute it, to say that he had, in fact, meant this particular moment, the present situation— but it wouldn't matter much, would it? The truth was that he did feel exactly as she said, so whether or not that was precisely how he meant what he'd said— and to be perfectly honest, he can't even be quite sure what he had meant— it held true all the same.

He does feel those things, acutely.

He sighs heavily, tilting his head back as he drags a hand over his face to try and keep himself collected, not wanting anything to slip without his permission.]

I could have said far worse.

[... well. That was a failure, clearly. He clenches his jaw instead, fixing his gaze squarely on her, and he hates that this has become a point of contention between them, that caring for someone has become something unwanted.

They'd talked about it, early on— that he suspected she might try to slip away if she thought it was the right thing, but he'd never imagined it would have happened as quickly as it did.]

I'm worried about what will happen when I do walk out that door.

[Because even if he's refusing to leave at the moment, he'll have to eventually. He can't stay in her home uninvited forever.]

I don't know what you think is going to happen.

[She shakes her head at him slowly.]

It's not as if I dislike you. It's not as if you've committed some great sin against me. It's not as if I would say anything against you. If I've somehow given you that impression, I didn't intend for it. I have nothing except wonderful things to say about you to anyone who would even ask.

[She frowns then, though she's stuck on his words. "I could have said far worse." Is there something worse than hearing he wants to be with her and it's... just not something that can happen? Because to her that sounds like one of the worst things ever.

When she takes note of just how intently he eyes her, Aerith draws her gaze away, a subtle pink touching her features. She feels so worn down when she's in his presence. How is it that the person who brings her the most happiness, a kind she never expected to find, is also the one who inadvertently causes her the most amount of pain. And it's not even his doing.]

I don't know how what else I can say or do to reassure you.

That's not what I'm concerned about.

[He wishes he could sound more certain of that, but he would like to think that for all they don't know about one another, they know the most important things. Aerith is neither unkind nor cruel by nature. She also wasn't the sort to gossip, or spread rumors that were untrue— regardless of whether there was reason for her to do so or not.

He isn't worried about any of that; rather, his concerns are considerably more selfish. He resists the urge to sigh once more, averting his own gaze for a brief moment when he notes the color in her cheeks. He can't even say that it isn't his intention to make this more difficult for her. While he has no interest in causing her pain, he doesn't want her to shove him away and try to forget him.

Moving on is something he's never been particularly good at.]

I worry that once I go, this is the last I'll see of you.

[Save for perhaps random encounters on the street— if that.]

Isn't... it better that way.

[She folds her hands together, quieted by the thoughts that seem to linger over her head. The ones with the same weight that settle atop her shoulders and bind her to the present.]

You'll want to say it isn't, I'm sure. I'm confident that I know you. I... can't forget you if you're around me. I can't move forward. I can't move on. That isn't your fault. It's mine. If I were stronger, it wouldn't matter.

[At least this is what she says. Whether that's true or not... entirely debatable. Whether she sees him or not, Balthier is, undoubtedly, a part of her. A part she was never looking for. A part she never thought she wanted. A part she didn't realise may have been missing. That part is uniquely him.

For just a moment, as she eyes him, it reflects in the way she gazes at him. Not so much pain, but simply... adoration? Devotion? Books would do a far better job of describing it.

"Books are the best kind of neighbour."

...Aren't they, though.]

You have something of mine. Don't you know that I'm always with you, no matter where you go. Far or near.

[Her heart, she means. He has her heart.]

[His expression shifts as his gaze returns to meet hers. He's taken care to be as neutral as possible until now, with varying results, trending more towards firm or irate when he did allow anything to show through, but the expression he wears now is nothing short of crestfallen. They way she looks at him in turn makes something in the pit of his stomach twist sharply, and he feels as though his heart is about to drop out of him entirely, leaving him hollow.]

I wish you didn't feel so strongly that you had to forget.

[Because he knows he won't be. He can't just forget her. He doesn't want to. For all his talk of not wanting to live in the past, he has never been able to forget anyone who has touched his heart in some way. Aerith has done far more than that; she had taken hold of it completely.]

You— have something of mine, as well.

[For all she'd said he couldn't say to her, he's not sure she'll allow this any more willingly, but he cannot leave that unspoken.]

And even if you must forget, I won't.

[Instead of responding immediately, protesting, or otherwise outright rejecting him, she says nothing. Instead, she takes him in, gives what he says the appropriate time needed for it to linger between them. Do their feelings mirror one another? Perhaps they do. As she takes him in, Aerith realises she could eye him for quite some time without tiring of it.

What she might give for just another afternoon watching him sleep, wondering what kinds of things he dreams about. The thought alone makes her heart ache. Sweetly, perhaps.

After a moment's hesitance, she unfolds her hands and reaches toward him. Keeping a careful gaze on him, there's a distinct pause. She's thinking better of this, as if it's some kind of obstacle that only she can see. She pushes past it, whatever it may be, and with an exceeding amount of care, she presses touch right atop where his heart rests.]

You should take care to protect this.

[To covet it. To treasure it. She's not worthy of it, but she knows better than to say so.]

Even from me.

[He swears his heart stops for half a moment when her hand comes to rest atop his chest, and in the brief silence before it starts to beat again, he finds himself at a momentary loss for words. Her hesitation before her approach should be all he needs to convince himself not to act on impulse, not to do the very first thing that comes to mind, but he finds it difficult to stop himself— near impossible. He lays a hand over her own, his fingers curling against it instinctively, and it's unlike his efforts to reach out to her earlier— it's soft, affectionate, feather-light as though her hand might shatter beneath his touch if he isn't careful.]

I've always been good at that part.

[Protecting his heart. It was, perhaps, one of his most finely honed skills, and yet in this situation he feels absolutely hopeless, as though all of those years of practice meant nothing at all.

He knows he shouldn't, knows he's doing nothing to help her move on as she's so intent on doing, but he can't help but feel compelled to lean in and cup the side of her face for the first time in what feels like ages, swallowing hard before he presses his lips to hers, earnest and maybe just a bit too hard as something like desperation breaks through.

Please, don't.]

[It's a touch she should expect. Certainly somewhere inside of her she does expect it. Regardless, the moment his hand presses to hers in that ever intimate way, she begins to draw back. What stops her is when he reaches over to carefully take hold of her. What follows is nothing short of bittersweet.

Aerith often thinks of the kisses they've exchanged. Of everything they've exchanged, really. Those kinds of things are never far from her mind. There's something about this kiss. Insistent, but not the way it had been the day she'd intruded on his territory. Behind closed doors, Balthier is an entirely different kind of man. It takes one kiss to think of every little impression he's made on her.

For just some moments, she's caught up in it. But before she can fall too far, Aerith struggles to to catch breath he's too easily stolen, dipping her head.]

—I can't.

[Rather, she can. Only that she shouldn't.]

[After weeks apart, that single kiss brings memories flooding back— thoughts that were never buried too deeply to begin with, scenes that he's revisited time and time again, now drawn back to the surface by something other than his inclination to torment himself with what he can no longer have. Even as she pulls away, he chases; she dips her head and he moves his hand to gently rest at the back of her neck, his hold on her hand over his chest tightening slightly.]

You can.

[Of course, he knows why she insists otherwise— she thinks that she shouldn't, that they should stay far away from one another, and she may even be right, even if he can't bring himself to agree with it. He dips his own head to try and reach her, his grasp dropping just a hair to curl around her wrist and draw her close once again.

For a moment, she'd been lost in that kiss right along with him. None of this is for a lack of wanting on either side.

He dares to steal another, insistent as the kiss before, his pirate heart unwilling to give up treasure so easily. Pirates take, take, take, and don't walk away from something they know to be truly valuable.]

I won't say anything else you don't want to hear.

[Kissing isn't against any of the rules she'd loosely set out beforehand, technically speaking, though he knows that in this moment, he's playing a very dangerous game.]

[If it wasn't him how different would this be? She'd slap him, most likely. Right in that handsome face of his. There are many variables that prevent that from happening. One being that she never wants to have a reason to raise a hand against him. Another being that he is... well. He's him. The heart complicates all matters, perhaps none so more than these types.

What if she took just some moments... for them both?

No. That's a terrible idea. Because she'll want more. More than she can rightfully expect of him. The only thing it'll do is make her berate herself for it later. She's already doing that in the present, isn't she? They've gotten here because of her. What's a little more inward kicking.

He draws her closer to him almost effortlessly. He presses upon her another kiss, threatening her heart to racing. She doesn't linger nearly as long the second time around, though his words settle between her ears, competing with the deafening thump of her pulse.]

This isn't a good idea. [She does manage to say.] I... I don't want you to get the wrong idea. I don't want to mislead you. [If she gives in at all, he may think he's changed her mind. She can't let him think that. It's all a terrible idea in retrospect.]

[She's right. On this one thing, they can agree— it isn't a good idea, because they'll both want more, won't be content to let this be enough, and yet how much worse would that be than where they already are? Where he already is, alone and wanting and unable to even begin to think of closure, unable and unwilling to move forward out of sheer stubbornness and what has perhaps become a vain hope that somehow, this can be resolved.

He lets her pull away this time, loathe as he is to do so, and his hand drops away from the nape of her neck, coming to rest lightly against her hip even as distance appears between them.]

No— I know you won't change your mind.

[Because she's just as stubborn as he is. There's an impossibly heavy feeling that's settled over his chest, knowing that a few insistent kisses aren't going to be enough to sway her. At this point, he's certain nothing will.]

It's not misleading if I accept that, is it?

[He seems clear, not fully touched by whatever nonsense feelings may draw one into. Whatever cute little false hopes they might be finding. Even so, his touch remains. That subtle little press of palm over the curve of her hip. He's softened her already with kisses and touch alone.

But what he says next...

For several long moments as she attempts—and fails—to gather herself, Aerith stares him. She pries with emerald gaze, as if she's trying to decipher what exactly he's saying.]

I don't know what you're asking of me.

[Because she's certain he's asking something. There's implication in his touch, in the sound way he imprinted memory upon her lips. Her own slackens and loosens and for just a breath or two, Aerith feels light of head, perhaps a tandem of the her circumstance, the turning of thoughts coerced by Sephiroth, the state of her being, the concept of humanity and what that means, mercy and compassion, and every step with Balthier that's brought her to where she is now.]

I'm not entirely sure of that, myself.

[It's not often that he admits to not knowing something, least of all his own mind, but even as they speak, he finds his heart and mind to be at war with one another. One more kiss hardly seems enough to ask, but anything beyond that—

It's dangerous, is it not? Will it only make things more difficult, if the current situation gets out of hand? It wouldn't be the first time they had gotten carried away, and yet if it were to escalate, he doesn't think he would regret it in the end. He wouldn't go so far as to call it closure— because nothing that has or could take place here tonight could ever even come close, not when he knows himself as he does, but there's a bittersweet note to this exchange even as they are now.

It's a goodbye, if anything, though he hates to think of it that way. She won't change her mind, and he can't make her. Wouldn't force her, even if he could. She would only resent him for that.

He sighs, and rather than try to kiss her again, he simply leans in to let his forehead rest against hers.]

Nothing you aren't willing to give. Only that there are as few regrets as we can manage when we part ways.

[It isn't misleading him, if he knows that's what has to happen.]

[What is and isn't she willing to give? What does she have left to give? Aerith has given every part of herself to him. Perhaps not every piece of information he ought to have. Every piece of information that likely doesn't matter. The only thing she hasn't been able to offer him is stability. She couldn't have offered that if she tried.

For just a moment, she toys with possibilities. What if she simply never went back to Midgar? What if she went with him to Ivalice? Such things likely aren't possible. If they were, wouldn't it be irresponsible of her? Isn't it her place to protect those she cares for back home? What if... she could bring him with her? She's not selfish enough to do that. He has his own life to attend to, his own dreams and desires. She can't ask him to give up any of that.

His forehead rests to hers, her eyes shut, and for moments that seem longer than they are, all she thinks about is him. How much she's missed him. His witty jokes. His expression when she antagonises him. The genuine smiles that take him on occasion and the charming little half curve he usually wears.

"...as few regrets as we can manage when we part ways."

When they part ways. She can think it. Has. But having it said aloud, knowing she hasn't been able to say it herself, is like driving a dagger into her heart. Her bottom lip trembles, she splinters down, breaks and fractures, silent tears in modesty falling over cheeks. If one can ever assume that Aerith has ever fully been one piece, a contestable idea.

I don't want you to go.

Even if she can't say it, she thinks it. She feels it. She wraps herself in that thought, imagining for a shaken breath or two a circumstance difference for them both.

If she speaks, she'll ruin it. All she can do is grasp the moment for what it is before it should wither like a flower in winter.]

[He has no way of knowing, precisely, what's going through her mind. It could be any one of a thousand things; his own has been racing with thoughts and potential solutions for this predicament of theirs for weeks, and he has come up empty every time— because that's the thing about the future, isn't it? With very few exceptions, none can know what it holds, and even the best laid plans are often thwarted. There were no solutions that seemed plausible, nothing that could change with any kind of surety what she knew to be certain. The more he learns of what she knows, where she's from, the more determined he is to defy it these things; a predetermined fate goes against everything he stands for, and yet Aerith lives her every day staring hers down.

He sees the tremble of her lip before the rest sets in— the subtle shake of her shoulders as she finally breaks apart at the seams and tears begin to fall. He's never seen her this way, and he's certain that she never wanted him to— she has always been concerned with how he perceives her, even in their most private moments.

His hand lifts from her hips and he puts both arms around her without hesitation, gathering her to his chest and lifting his head so that he can rest his chin against her own, one hand coming to rest at the back of it in the hopes of offering some kind of comfort, reassurance. Is there any comfort that can be enough, for all she's feeling? Vain though he may be, he knows this isn't just about him. It's everything— all of it too much to bear, and all of it making the bond between them that much more complicated.]

I'm here as long as you want me to be.

[She hasn't said anything, and he doesn't expect her to— but it's the only reassurance he can offer her. He'll not leave her on her own like this, and he'll stay right where he is as long as she'll allow.]

[It's likely a vain hope that he doesn't witness her in those moments. If he has any judgement, she can't tell. He certainly doesn't say so. Instead, he chooses to simply act as whatever support she may need, likely not knowing what's within his realm of possibility to give. There aren't easy answers for situations like theirs and Balthier is so much in the dark that it wouldn't be possible for him to give any without making an error somewhere. Even Aerith's judgement can't be considered completely sound.

As she plays back the recent weeks, the various conversations, what limited information she's gained of her own predicament, slowly and gradually, she draws her touch up along his back. When was the last time she cried? When she was younger, if she's remembering that correctly. A lonely childhood where she had very few to depend on. Her life has been fraught with disappointment and misfortune. She's learned not to cry about it all, but perhaps years of not doing so have led to this moment.

So she waits and lingers, turbulent, but trying to calm proverbially churning waters. For just a moment, one hand lifts to dust aside some of what's fallen. The rest, she suspects she's inadvertently buried against him. She doesn't feel great about that. He's taking it all in stride, but he shouldn't have to shoulder this. Yet she knows that for him, it's not a case of feeling that it's obligation, but simply a desire. It's as simple as that.]

I'm sorry.

[Aerith finally manages to say as her arms tighten about him for just some breaths. Honestly, nothing beats a good hug. She's needed quite a lot of them lately and hasn't bothered to say as much. Where it leaves her, she can't say.]

If I'm being honest, I'd say that I wanted you to stay forever. The thing is, you have your own things to get to. It would be hard, but I could walk away from you, knowing that you finally have someone here who can continue to be here for you. That way, when we are parted—not because I want us to be, but because anything else just isn't possible that I can see—she can help you keep moving forward.

[A pause as she draws in a breath, thinking very carefully, perhaps too carefully, about how to word things.]

I know I keep making decisions on your behalf, even knowing that whether I want them to or not, the things going on in my life impact you. I thought I was trying to protect you, knowing and admitting that I was trying to protect myself. It wasn't all for one or two reasons. I just wanted to be with you, but facing that means putting us both through turmoil we don't need and don't deserve. Weighing days or moments of happiness against a lifetime of what will also likely be regret and guilt, I don't know how I should feel about that. I don't want to feel guilty after you leave tonight.

[If he leaves tonight.]

I don't want to feel guilty tomorrow when I want to see your face or hear your voice, or hold hands with you and have stupid debates about things that don't even matter. So what am I supposed to do. How can I know. I don't feel like I know anything.

[The apology is unnecessary, in his opinion. For all his frustration, he has never thought to demand one from her— only the chance to understand, and the opportunity to be heard. She's giving him that now, and he thinks it's as much for her as it is for him, perhaps even more. She's kept these things inside for so long, unwilling to burden others with her thoughts, the truths she must live with every day, that while it hardly solves anything to speak them aloud, it has to allow some kind of relief. As someone who is also inclined to keep his deepest and most troubling thoughts to himself, play such things close to the chest except in very specific company, he knows there is some sort of catharsis to be found in finally speaking it aloud, even if it changes nothing. It lifts some of the weight, allowing someone else to help shoulder the burden— though that's far easier said than done. His troubles have always been his own. In that vein, he can understand why Aerith has felt that her burdens were hers alone.

When she tightens her return embrace, he does the same, a subtle but firm offer of reassurance that he's sure means very little in the greater scheme of things— but he'll stay just as he is for as long as she needs, an anchor if she'll allow him to be.]

I can't tell you what to do. I haven't the right— but I never want you to feel guilt where I'm concerned. Not for a moment, though I know it's in your nature.

[Because she's uncommonly kind. Because she puts the feelings of others before her own for so many different reasons. It's admirable— but in this, in finding some way to move forward, in whatever direction she may choose, he thinks it only serves to make things that much more difficult.]

I don't care for regrets, certainly not for things I have done. The ones that linger are more often for those I haven't, opportunities I've allowed to slip past. Regardless of what happens, I will not regret a single moment spent with you.

[He's been more honest this day than he's allowed himself in quite some time; he feels it bordering on uncharacteristically saccharine, but it is vital, he thinks, that he make himself perfectly clear. This is not the time for his usual flippancy, adoration hidden behind teasing quips, or offering her an invitation to read between the lines for his true meaning.

If there was ever a time to be blunt, it is now.]

You take moments of happiness where you find them, even if they can't last forever. Nothing does. That's not what makes them worth having.

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