Somebody's crying. Probably the same person that was hyperventilating earlier. God, that guy needs to get it together, it's starting to get embarrassing.

Wait, shit. It's still him.

That still doesn't sound a whole lot like breathing either.

He pulls in a ragged, deliberate inhale. It feels like his chest is caving, or over-full. It feels like bruised ribs. Which... in hindsight, he might actually have, considering the past few weeks. It's worth it, though — every ache in his body, every twinge from the way he's folded around her, the struggle to breathe. All of it's worth it for this.

Six. Fucking. Years.

It strikes him again, the disbelief. The utter incredulity. The impossibility of her reality, and the shocking truth that she exists.

She exists, she exists, she exists. Real. Solid. There. Still there. Still there.

He pulls back to look at her again, eyes wet and wide and lost.

And then presses his lips to hers abruptly, in the least graceful kiss he can remember ever giving. Not that he's given many in the last half a decade.

(None. He's given none.)