Had he thought that her insults had stung? Had he really? It was nothing compared to this. He didn't even have an explanation for how it felt, suddenly, as if he was breaking open. It was too much. All of it, too much. And it hurt, not like a broken leg hurts, but like betrayal hurts; a punch in the chest, a twist in the gut. He didn't just let himself be pulled into her arms, he clung to her with an almost violent desperation, the way a drowning man might cling to a piece of wood he knows is too small to keep him afloat.

He didn't cry. That was something, at least, even if it felt like it might be only that there were too many tears to come out at once. But his cold fingers clenched into claws against her sweater, and he buried his face against her shoulder, his breath coming in rags and tatters. All the strength seemed to have gone out of him.