"You chose me," he says one night.

It's hot in the Caribbean and the sheets are crumpled at the end of the bed, but that doesn't stop her from laying half across his chest, wrapping herself around him. She hums in response in a content and tired way. It's been a week since what she's come to refer to simply as The End and her eyes are still red rimmed and puffy from crying.

"You chose me," he says and he has her curls wrapped around his fingers, watching them unravel as she turns to face him, resting her head back on his chest. He searches the very serious look in her eyes, the sad smile that has become a constant presence. "Over SHIELD, over everything you've lived and breathed for years and—"

She shuts him up with a soft kiss, crawling up the bed so she's lying to face him, and he still looks so lost and confused and like this thought has been on his mind since The End, since they left the bar and got on a plane and vanished.

"I made that mistake a long time ago," she whispers, tracing the side of his cheek with a light touch. "It's about time I fixed it."

She kisses him again and curls up against him, head tucked under his chin. "I would make the same one again," she murmurs sleepily.

"Me too, love," he says, holding her close, and the smile that crosses her face next isn't sad at all.