She melts against him, the need to touch and be touched by him as raw and powerful as it's ever been. Her hands settle on his skin, pressing her palms flat so she can feel his heart beating, can feel the rise and fall of his chest. The memory of reading his name on that mud-caked warrant card surfaces, and with it, that same cold sense of dread. But he's here, right here, wrapping his arms around her, and they're going to be okay.

If she has anything to say about it, they're going to be okay.

She nestles close against him, her nose marking the line of his jaw, almost hiding her face against his throat.

She'd apologize, but she's afraid to say anything, lest she disrupt this fragile peace with her big mouth again.