- Author's Note: Title alludes to the symbolism of those two herbs: remembrance and regret.

Trigger warning: POV mental fragility

Rachel stood outside Mr. Schulte's Photography Studio, a crocheted blanket clutched to her chest.

Mr. Schulte had taken her senior photos. He was dead now. Miles had rented this room. Space inside the village walls was scarce.

Rachel tried to convince herself to knock. It was stupid. She turned back down the hallway. She made it five steps before turning around again.

It was just a blanket. It didn't have to mean anything.

She rapped on the door, clutching the autumn-colored blanket harder.

No sounds came from the room. From his room.

Rachel felt like crying. She felt like crying. She, who had spent so many years with torture and uncertainty hanging over her, without cracking. Now, she was broken. She was a shattered coffee mug super-glued together – mostly. Missing pieces, pieces put back in wrong, sharp edges, gaps, a broken handle. Should still be usable, serviceable, functional.

The door squeaked open. Miles stood there, his hair sticking straight up on one side of his head. Bed head. Shorter hair. He had gotten his hair cut. When had he gotten a haircut?

"Morning," he said, rubbing sleep from his eyes. His eyes were bloodshot, and he smelled like cheap whiskey. Maybe that is why he left her. No, left her father's house. Hadn't left her yet.

"I brought you a housewarming gift," Rachel said, holding out the blanket. The blanket she had gotten from Sara Wilkerson.

Miles' callused hands took it. He looked at her in puzzlement. He looked like Mr. Schulte's quizzical old Schnauzer.

"It may be summer now, but Texas does get cold. The colors remind me of fall. And you," Rachel pulled at the hem of her shirt. She wasn't going to say those last bits. Her hem was a bit unraveled.

Still picking at her hem, she said, "You can use it in the fall. Are you still gonna be here in the fall, or are you leaving too?"

She sounded broken and needy. She hated how broken and needy she sounded. She was broken and needy. She hated how broken and needy she was.

Miles interrupted her downward spiral, joking, "I don't have anywhere else to be."

It wasn't the answer she wanted. And though she had gotten a Masters in Understanding Miles, she didn't understand the meaning underneath the words, the intent behind them. Did that mean he was staying 'cause he cared and was too emotionally constipated to admit it, or did in really mean that he'd leave – like Charlie – as soon as he came up with something better to do? That moving out of her father's house was the first step on his path to leaving her again? Rachel knew she stood there a long time, thinking.

"So, um, do you want to come in?" Miles asked with a small half-shrug.

Half-shrug, quarter-shrug, eighth-shrug, sixteenth-shrug, thirty-secondth-shrug?

"Or should I walk you home?" He asked gently. Like she was an addlebrained puppy. She wasn't crazy. Okay, she was. But she wasn't as crazy as the world around her. With rogue nanites, former bosses blowing their brains out, and computer terminals frying and arcing before she could stop the world from being destroyed again.

Her annoyance broke through her rambling thoughts. Rachel nodded her head and stepped in, towards the door. Miles stepped back, making room. Like a dance. They had never gotten to go dancing before.

Rachel wondered what it would be like to dance with Miles. He must be good. He would bring the grace and precision of the battlefield and the raw passion and attentiveness of the bedroom together on the dance floor. He would be good.

Miles gestured at the queen bed. It was the only place to sit. Rachel darted in and grabbed the blanket from Miles. She snapped it open. She lay it on the bed, stroking down the brown-almost-black, white, burnt orange, butter golden, and tan yarn. Then she gingerly sat.

"Would you like to go dancing?" she asked.

Miles side-eyed her like she was crazy. She felt her shoulders hunch of their own accord.

Miles appeared beside her, talking softly, as if to a spooked horse, "No Rachel, I'll go dancing. I just don't know how."

No. No. This was not the way it was supposed to go. She was supposed to show him she was strong, sane. Let him go if that is what he needed, even though that was the last thing she wanted. Not bind him to her with hoops of guilt. The second-to-last thing she wanted was to destroy someone else's life again.

Rachel brushed off his hand – he had placed it on her thigh, like Before – "No, that's okay. It was a stupid thought. I hope you like the blanket."

Rachel stood, turned to leave, but Miles caught her wrist. She stared at the hand on her wrist. The large hand on her fragile wrist. The only alternative was to look into his deep chocolately eyes. And she couldn't handle that right now. She'd shatter and break.

The hand slowly – like molasses on a winter's morning – released her wrist.

"Rachel, what's up? Why are you here?" Miles asked. Rachel looked up. Into his concerned eyes. She rubbed her hand over her wrist. Her newly raised scars. The warmth of his fingerprints.

The pieces of her self jangled to the floor all around her.

"Don't leave me. Please don't leave me," She spewed out, before stuffing her fist into her mouth. Shouldn't have said that, shouldn't have said that, shouldn't have said that.

"Hey, Hey, Hey," Miles said, hands hovering centimeters above her shoulders. Shouldn't have said that, shouldn't have said that, shouldn't have said that.

"Rachel!" He commanded. She stopped rocking and looked up. Not into his eyes, but at his jawline. He was sporting his perpetual 2-days growth, and through it, she could tell his skin didn't have its youthful vigor anymore. They weren't kids anymore.

"Rachel, I'm done with leaving the people I care about."

The bricks released from her shoulders and settled in her stomach. He wasn't going to leave her anymore. He cared about her, and was man enough to admit it.

Rachel sat back down on the bed. Mind whirring a mile a minute. He wasn't going to leave her anymore. He cared about her, and was man enough to admit it. But what did it mean?

"Rachel?" he asked gently.

"You're not going to leave me again?" she asked, tremulous hope dancing over the words.

"Nope."

The ground around her solidified. Pieces of mug-self fused back together. Aligning, annealing. Fewer gaps. Fewer pieces missing.

"Good," she said, one small smile tugging at her lips.