Come home.

She still looks between his face and his hand, as though just to be sure that he means it.

Usually she doesn't hold strongly. Her touch has always been light, as though she's always been afraid that she'll need to pull away. Now her hand comes forward, holds onto his as hard as she can muster, shivering in his.

"I'm sorry . . ." For worrying him. For making him afraid. She's trembling all over; suddenly she can't seem to stop. "I'm sorry."

She holds on.