It's pretty late when he hears that knock on the door.
He's surprised when he opens the door and finds her there. She's in the same dress as earlier, hair still that honey blonde color he missed so much.
But the expression on her face isn't the same one as before. It isn't the one that shocked him earlier that day when she said, "We're getting full custody." (If we're honest, he's not sure which part shocked him more: the fact that she meant both of them or the fact that she was serious about it.)
No, the expression on her face isn't the same. She looks broken, more so than ever. He can tell she's been crying, either at home or on the way here.
He isn't given much more time to think after that. She takes two steps forward without a word and kisses him. It feels too natural; at the same time, he's gone too long without it.
It's a blur, really, their travel up the stairs and into his bedroom. He wants to pull away, just to find out what exactly was going on, but he can't. He's suddenly too caught up in this, just like her.
Soon enough their clothes end up on a pile on the ground. She's back on his bed, which has missed her just as much as he did; she's back under him, bodies pressed together as he attempts to kiss and touch every inch of skin.
Much of it is wordless. She grips him during the thrusts and moans into his mouth once they're done. Only signs that remain of their deed are in the air and marked on his back with her nails.
She's a crying mess after it, and not for the same reasons as last time. But he holds her, like he always did; like he always will.
"Why?" she asks him. There's no need for her to finish that.
"Because you're perfect," he whispers in her hair.
"I'm broken."
"I'll fix you."
No one's ever said it before and meant it like he did.