[He stays where he is, feeling vaguely guilty for needing this so much, but still absolutely selfish enough to soak it in. He turns his head into the hand in his hair, relishing the closeness - lets the words wash over him, reassuring and gentle and good. The parts about him being good and helpful - well, those cut away at him, a little, because he is all too aware of his own faults. But he clings to the other parts, the parts that suggest maybe she'll want to spend time with him later, just as tightly as his hands are still clinging to her shirt.]

[It's not until he's cried himself out that he tries to talk again. The words are wobbly and hoarse, when he finally manages.]

Sorry. 'm sorry. I just - I missed you, is all.