"But why?" he asks, sounding forlorn like he's annoyed and dismayed that everyone understands something he doesn't. He doesn't see why Kate should be asking his forgiveness. She should be forgiving him.

Her hand clutches at his, her nails digging into his skin, little pin-pricks of pain winding their way up his arm, but he wouldn't shake her off for the world.

He's not crying, but his breath is a little shaky, and when he pulls her closer to him so he can wind his free arm around her, his hands tremble slightly. "Katie," he breathes, tugging her all the way into his lap, their legs tangled hopelessly on the cold tile, his arms curling around her and his face pressing into her hair the way he's been dying to do for weeks. He feels like he can't say her name enough.

"Jesus Christ," he continues shakily, a laugh as choked as hers had been bubbling in his throat but never quite making it free of his lips. "I've been such a wreck." As if that hadn't been obvious.