[It's him. It's really him. He has all that certain steadiness and easy consideration—that he remembers the cookies, that he says next time—that helped make him a bastion when she had been more lost than ever.
Mary smiles, a little, in the shaky way of someone unsure if the expression is the right one, or if it will even hold. There's a break in her voice, too, when she speaks, with the same kind of unsteadiness.]
Maybe we can trade. Everyone tells me I've gotten pretty good at baking, too.
[She takes a breath. It's careful, like there's a part of her afraid that if she does too much the moment will shatter and she will lose it and she will lose him again.]
It's really you.
[And then you know what? Fuck it. Utterly careless, she lets her sketchbook and her plate clatter to the floor as she flings open her arms and lunges at him for a hug.]
no subject
Mary smiles, a little, in the shaky way of someone unsure if the expression is the right one, or if it will even hold. There's a break in her voice, too, when she speaks, with the same kind of unsteadiness.]
Maybe we can trade. Everyone tells me I've gotten pretty good at baking, too.
[She takes a breath. It's careful, like there's a part of her afraid that if she does too much the moment will shatter and she will lose it and she will lose him again.]
It's really you.
[And then you know what? Fuck it. Utterly careless, she lets her sketchbook and her plate clatter to the floor as she flings open her arms and lunges at him for a hug.]