She could tell how incredibly true that was. As badly as she missed him and worried about him, she was busy every minute. He had nothing but time and he'd already had plenty of that. She shifted a little so she could get one arm better around him. With the other, she found his hand and laced her fingers through his.

And then she held him. Nothing she could say would mean much while he was getting the tears out. What mattered was the solid truth of her against him. She'd come, the way she said she would, and she was fighting for him. Every so often she kissed his hair and made soft noises.

For her, there was no awkwardness in it, no discomfort or pity, just a sorrow that it couldn't be different. She loved him.