Simmons' expression appears uncharacteristically lost as she stands there holding her valise before her almost defensively. Upon entering, she'd smoothly drawn her gun, checking the room for a hidden Vanchat. Finding no one, only his scattered travel gear, now she just holds the pistol limply at her side.

"What should we do now, Simmons?" he asks urgently, his anxiety level causing perspiration to prickle out along the skin of his forehead and upper lip. "What's the plan?"

At his words, she seems to get her bearings suddenly and, glancing around the room, says, "Look for his computer. Any sort of data storage. Anything at all that might help us find Ward. Don't make a mess of it or he'll run as soon as he opens the door. Just put everything back as you found it."

He nods quickly, mind already working, beginning to calculate where he might hide those things Simmons wants him to find. He makes a point of thoroughly checking all the small places someone might hide a memory stick or small data card—taped under tables or inside drawers, hidden in Vanchat's shaving kit or in the lining of his luggage. Simmons searches as well; with tools from her valise she carefully opens up the alarm clock and the desk phone then searches the entire mattress by feel. But neither of them find any sign of a computer or any data storage by well over two hours later. They carefully put the room back as they work and, by the time they finish, it looks just the same as when they'd begun—which is, in itself, its own form of unsatisfying when they have nothing to show for their efforts.

Fitz raises his eyebrows and takes in a breath in readiness to ask her, once again, what they should do now.

However, before he can even speak, she sits down on the side of the bed facing the door, and says, "Now we wait."

He sits at the foot of the bed and, even with not quite a meter of space between them, it's as if she's drawing him closer. Like a magnet, he feels pulled toward her physical presence. He can't get his brain to stop replaying their tryst in the hallway—the feel of her lips working over his neck or her teeth rasping over his stubble and her hands caressing his chest. How it had all provoked him to throw caution to the wind and kiss her tender throat as well. In theory, it was all part of the game after all, wasn't it? His mind kept on repeat his lips gliding over the delicate skin along her jaw and how he'd nearly directed his trail of kisses to her gorgeous shapely lips. But at the last moment, he'd decided it was too much temptation.

Even now, hours later, he can't get the fantastic taste of her skin off his mind. He can't even describe it really, it just is the most incredible, intoxicating thing he's ever experienced. He understands that it was a necessary ruse—evidently—but it doesn't stop him from longing for it to be real or for them to be real. He remembers her thigh slipping over his legs, the incredible heat in between radiating against him. As much as these thoughts are driving him mad, the though that somehow this gorgeous, amazing woman might see in him something worth having is almost the more stimulating idea. He just wishes he knew how to make it happen.

He drops his head into his hands in frustration, suddenly feeling the specs he'd nearly forgotten were on his face.

At nearly the same moment, he hears Simmons sigh from where she sits holding her gun resting on her knee as she watches the door intently.

He tenses when she unexpectedly says, "Fitz—"

But then there's a noise in the hallway outside the room and they both stiffen, attention focusing on the sound outside and what its source might be. Fortunately, Fitz remembers his specs again, he hits the backscatter button on the side of the frames just as Simmons stands and waves a furious hand at him, urging him toward the en suite bathroom.

He gets up, heading in that direction but, finding the ghostly outline of a man just outside the room's door, he sees the man is heavily laden with weapons. There's a gun under his jacket and another in an ankle holster as well as a literal knife in his boot. He pulls the gun from under his jacket and holds it at waist-height before slipping a keycard from his pocket.

Fitz turns and half-mouths, half-hisses at Simmons, "Must be him, he's very armed." He feels an awful fear deep in his belly, like a thousand bees buzzing though his insides. He tries to remind himself that Simmons can take care of herself, probably more so if she isn't fretting about him being an idiot and getting shot.

She nods at his information, waving him toward the toilet more vigorously. Wanting to be certain Simmons isn't worrying for him so she can focus on her task, he quickens his step into the other room and out of direct harm, or so he hopes. Simmons puts her back to the wall next to the bed where she'll be hidden from sight of anyone coming through the door.

There's an electronic beep from the keycard being inserted before the silhouetted figure comes hesitantly inside. Fitz suddenly wishes he'd given Simmons his specs because he's bloody useless. He doesn't even have a gun.

The door swings shut behind the glowing figure as Fitz watches him stalk slowly into the room. Moving extremely warily, the man is nearly even with Simmons' hiding spot. He sees the man getting ready to peer around the corner where she's hiding with his gun aimed right where Simmons will soon be directly in the line of sight. Anxiety buzzing through him, knowing it may infuriate her, Fitz still can't stop himself from flipping on the faucet as a distraction.

The man immediately looks in the direction of the sound and Fitz watches in terror as Simmons pops out from around the corner directly in front of the man. She brings the butt of her pistol down on his forearm so sharply that he yelps and drops his gun to the floor where it bounces toward the door of the toilet.

Fitz turns off the backscatter and comes out from the safety of the other room. Somehow, the man doesn't even look worried or surprised as Simmons keeps her gun leveled intimidatingly at his head. Fitz picks up the man's fallen nine-millimeter, checks the safety and then tucks it into the back of his trousers.

"Vanchat," Simmons says, voice full of antipathy.

"Agent Simmons," he says, tipping his head in greeting as he raises his hands in the air before him almost casually. "How are you doing? I got your note. I was somehow certain it was one of my competitors. I've just gotten so complacent these days under Hydra's protection. I almost forgot that they have enemies as well," he finishes with an aggravating grin.

"Who's your friend?" Vanchat asks Simmons, nodding toward Fitz as he stands there watching the exchange mutely.

Simmons cocks her head toward Vanchat and Fitz walks up to the other man, trying to appear confident—and larger. He goes down on one knee to remove the smaller caliber pistol and great bloody combat knife concealed in Vanchat's elaborately-tooled cowboy boot. The knife is sheathed in leather but is nearly as long as Fitz's forearm and he cringes internally at the thought of what the man uses it for.

As Fitz steps away, tucking the small pistol into his jacket, he has no clue what to do with the huge knife so he just holds it, wondering where he might fit it away somewhere.

"Vanchat, this can go one of two ways," Simmons says threateningly. "You can tell me where I can find Ward right now or I can have a bit of fun with you first."

"What sort of fun?" he asks, giving her a purposefully lascivious leer.

Fitz grimaces involuntarily but she only smiles. "My favorite kind for men like you."

She reaches over and pulls the combat knife out of its sheath, leaving Fitz stunned and holding the bit of leather clutched in his hand. Without removing the gun from his head, Simmons runs the knife along the front of Vanchat's top. Fitz winces when she manages to catch a button on the edge of the blade. The knife is so sharp, the button doesn't even pop off, just falls nearly straight to the floor after the fluid cut.

That is when Vanchat looks worried for the first time, his eyes never leaving the blade of his knife as Simmons strokes over him with it, almost lovingly, only occasionally increasing the pressure until he gasps in fear. Then she presses the knife into his belly just slightly more than before and Vanchat whimpers. Fitz sees a bloom of bright-red blood soaking into the other man's white button-down and he has to swallow back the bile rising in his throat.

"I–I can't," Vanchat says, nearly desperate, eyes locked onto the blade still. "Ward, he's not exactly what you'd call forgiving. You can cut me if you want but he'll bloody well kill me. He'd likely have Bakshi work on me first. He was Whitehall's apprentice and you know what he was capable of." He shakes his head again. "Go ahead and arrest me. I'm not betraying Ward."

"I was afraid you might feel that way. I don't like being underestimated, Vanchat," Simmons says, her lip curled in contempt. "You clearly seem to be laboring under the false belief that I won't kill you."

Vanchat scoffs. "You're an agent of S.T.R.I.K.E., you can't just kill me."

Simmons leans just a tiny bit closer and smiles wolfishly. Her tone is quietly menacing, as she says, "I'm so far off-book, Vanchat, I think I might've lost the plot. There's no going back for me now."

Vanchat's eyes go a bit wider as he seems to reassess her but he quickly shakes his head again and croaks, "I can't."

Fitz isn't sure what to make of Simmons' threats. Vanchat certainly sounds like a tough nut to crack but Fitz finds himself put off and rather intimidated by her subdued yet ferocious manner. Even if it's all an act, it's convincing enough to be powerfully frightening. Though, he supposes that's likely exactly what's needed.

"I guess we get to do this the very fun way then," Simmons says. "Fitz, my valise?"

He sees it on the floor by the wall and he picks it up, bringing it hurriedly back to her. She hands him the knife which he reinserts into its sheath and then drops into the valise, feeling oddly like he doesn't want to touch it anymore than necessary.

"There are restraints in there. Bind his hands, please," she says almost conversationally.

Fitz digs through the other items of unclear purpose until he finds the restraints. He slips them over the other man's wrists and pulls them tight. Simmons steps up and pulls them even tighter until Vanchat gasps.

"Perfect," she says in a very pleased way. Then, she jabs the gun into the center of Vanchat's back and coldly says, "Walk."

She guides him to the door and motions for Fitz to open it. He peeks out into the hallway and, seeing no signs of life, he nods back at Simmons in the room.

"Make a noise and you won't have to worry about Ward at all," she threatens Vanchat. "We'll go to the stairwell, Fitz."

He walks directly beside Vanchat in case he tries to run, keeping him heading toward the stairwell exit. Fortunately, it's only a couple of doors down. Fitz goes first, with Simmons prodding Vanchat though the door after him.

"Up," she says simply.

Fitz heads up the stairs, Vanchat follows him and Simmons holds the gun on him from behind. Almost immediately, Fitz begins to sweat even more profusely beneath his layers even though the stairwell is cool. He's not sure if it's the exertion or pure nervous agitation at the circumstances, though he hopes it's not the exercise because he's somewhat recently taken up running. Dr. Streiten had suggested it as a way to help with his negative feelings and he'd like to think he's gotten at least somewhat more fit as a result.

"How far?" he calls back to Simmons after three flights.

"To the top, we're nearly there now," she says.

Fitz hears the footsteps falter behind him and he turns to see that Vanchat has turned, now apparently attempting to stare Simmons down. Fitz reaches under his jacket and takes the grip of Vanchat's nine-millimeter in his hand just in case it's needed.

"Don't test me," Simmons says crisply, looking so very small to Fitz as she stands several steps lower than Vanchat. She angles the gun lower, toward the other man's legs. "I'll take off both your kneecaps and drag you the last flight if I have to. Don't fuck about." She flicks her eyes upward, looking exasperated.

Fitz is startled when he utters his own—quite involuntary—swear under his breath. He finds it disturbing that he isn't certain if he's more turned on or terrified at the moment.

Darting each of them an expression of hate so sincere that it seems like it should easily be capable of killing, Vanchat turns and begins taking the steps one at a time again.

Fitz has to break the lock on the door to the roof but it goes even faster this time and he's soon pushing it open to step out into the damp outside world. The sky is still gray and it's beginning to drizzle so lightly that it's more like fog than rain.

Simmons urges Vanchat over to the corner of the building. "Sit," she orders him as if he were a dog. Vanchat, however, follows the command with a similar obedience. Fitz assumes her little pep talk had done the trick.

Handing him her valise while she covers Vanchat with her gun, Simmons says, "Fitz, can you restrain his ankles now, please?"

He digs through the contents until he finds another restraint which he uses on Vanchat's ankles. The look of contempt on the man's face as he does it makes him shudder with revulsion.

Simmons hands him an end of rope from inside her valise. He'd had no clue why it would be in there but he takes it, as she says, "Can you go tie that around something secure?"

Not sure what her game is, but still trusting she knows her business, he takes the end and ties it securely to some piping coming from the water filtration system.

When he returns, Simmons has replaced her gun in its holster and is tying the other end of the rope to a thicker secondary ankle restraint she'd gotten from her bag and placed on Vanchat. Fitz is suddenly worried at what she might do, even though he absolutely wants to trust her. He realizes this may be a brutal ruse to convince Vanchat he has no alternative but to give up all his intel. Or, Simmons might be planning on killing him as she'd already told Fitz that she planned to kill Ward. He doesn't believe it's necessary to kill anyone and he certainly doesn't want to see it happen. More than that, Fitz doesn't want to believe Simmons is capable of it—at least not for petty reasons like revenge.

"Simmons?" he questions, fear gripping him as she takes Vanchat under the arm. "What—"

"Give me a hand," she interrupts him after attempting to lift the other man and not quite managing it.

Fitz hesitates, not sure what she intends to do but, knowing now would be the worst time to ask, he moves to Vanchat's other side and grasps under his arm.

"What're you doing?" Vanchat asks, looking wildly back and forth between the two of them as they drag him back toward the edge in tandem. When there's no answer forthcoming, he digs his heels into the gravel of the roof, trying to slow their progress.

Simmons lifts and, feeling helplessly unable to demur, Fitz does as well as they move Vanchat backward toward the corner of the roof and the drop beyond.

"Simmons?" Fitz questions again, hoping for some slight reassurance once they get to the nearly meter high ledge with an eleven story drop on the other side.

She gives him an encouraging smile over the top of their hostage's head. Although his heart feels as if it's beating nearly out of his chest, Fitz helps her hike Vanchat up onto the ledge.

"Last chance, Vanchat," Simmons says almost kindly. "Give me something. Ward's location or anything that will get me closer to him." She reaches out and pats his arm, brushing some of the gravel dust from his expensive suit. "It's really not that difficult."

Vanchat glances over his shoulder at the drop beyond and, looking at Fitz's sweaty, nervous face and then over to Simmons, he seems to make a judgement. "No. I can't—"

But he never finishes as Simmons gives him a great push and he falls screaming over the edge.

Fitz turns away instantly, unable to look, but he quickly hears the snap when the rope draws taut. Lord, he only hopes his knots are tight enough to hold.

"You bitch!" he hears Vanchat scream up at them—or, he supposes, more specifically, at Simmons. He sounds to be in obvious pain and Fitz tries to remind himself that the man is likely directly responsible for dozens if not hundreds of deaths—indirectly, who knew?

"Oh, be nice," Simmons calls back flippantly, sitting down on the ledge and looking backward over her shoulder at Vanchat. "It's not as if I didn't warn you."

"I'm not telling you a goddamn thing, you crazy bint!" Vanchat calls up before groaning in pain. Fitz attempts not to think of the potential physical damage, instead, he tries repeating an internal mantra of: bad guy, bad guy, bad guy.

Fitz finally works himself up to looking over the edge and sees Vanchat dangling there by his feet against the side of the building. They're on the corner away from the windows so it's not likely anyone inside the hotel will see him lolling there upside down. However, even though they're on an interior corner most protected from the street, someone could walk by any moment below and see what's going on. Even someone in the hotel across the way might easily see a person dangling from the roof and call the emergency services. They need to leave—and quickly.

Simmons takes the combat knife out of her valise and, separating it from the sheath, she runs a single stroke over the rope which is the only thing keeping Vanchat from falling to his death. Fitz watches as the many small threads that make up the rope are cut and begin to fray.

"Oh, Vanchat," Simmons says, "you should try not to be so vulgar. It's just not very polite at all." She runs the knife over the rope again and Fitz hears some of the fibers tear a bit.

"What are you doing!" Vanchat shouts, bucking his body slightly but only managing to make himself slap into the side of the building again.

"I'm having a bit of fun, just like I told you," Simmons says, grinning down at him rather maniacally. "You could end my fun right now if you just gave me that little bit of information I've asked you for."

She runs the sharp blade over the rapidly fraying fibers again. This time, the rope makes a very audible ripping sound.

"I think your time is up, Vanchat," she says, bringing the knife close to the rope again.

Fitz is just about to reach his hand out to stop her when Vanchat shouts, "Alright! I'll tell you! Stop! Please, I'll tell you everything I know!"

"Please do," Simmons says, moving the knife away again, crossing her legs casually as if she's ready for a nice chat.

"Pull me up!" Vanchat shouts.

"Not until I'm certain I like what you say," she tells him archly.

"I don't know where Ward is! I swear, but—I know something else—someone who's going to meet with him! You'll get it, just get me up!"

"Who is this illustrious person?" Simmons says but her voice is once again cool despite her words.

"Ian Quinn! He's financing Hydra these days! C'mon, please! I'll tell you the rest if you just let me up now!"

"Where are they meeting?" she asks, the hard glint that scares Fitz so much returning to her eyes.

"I don't know!" he shouts. "I only know where Quinn is headed and that he's supposed to meet Ward for an information exchange. I just sold him the information. He's on his way to Paris right now and then I don't know! He only said he'll meet Ward in a few days! That's all I know! Please! Pull me up!"

"What was the information you sold to Quinn?" she asks, tapping the handle of the knife threateningly against the concrete of the ledge.

"It was some new weapon! A gun, I think! That's really all I know! Now get me the bloody hell up!" he nearly shrieks.

"One last thing, Vanchat. Who's your source within S.T.R.I.K.E. for all this classified information you've been selling lately?" Simmons asks, sounding almost disinterested though Fitz knows that can't be the case at all.

Vanchat doesn't answer for a moment but when Simmons brings the blade close to the rope again, he shouts, "Alright! It's all done by drops! I don't know who it is! I get messages telling me where the drops will be! That's all! I swear to you! Bloody hell, you psychotic woman, let me up!"

"Well, that was far more helpful than I thought you would be. Thank you for your cooperation with S.T.R.I.K.E., Mr. Vanchat," Simmons says, glancing at Fitz almost mischievously as she says it. He swallows hard and tries not to look as horrified as he feels.

"Come on, Fitz," she says then, tugging at his sleeve as she turns and picks up her valise, dropping the knife back inside.

"But—what about—" He points back toward Vanchat.

"They'll be here for him in a moment. We don't have time now to hang about trying to haul him up. Don't be silly," she says with a small laugh before turning back toward the exit.

He feels an irrational sting from that throwaway comment and little laugh but he chooses to ignore it. "He might fall by the time someone gets here."

She turns back, her face growing serious again. "Oh, Fitz. Fine. I'll call emergency services myself as well as Interpol to pick him up on espionage charges. Will that satisfy you?"

He looks at the rope and sees that the fraying has completely stopped. As much as he wants to be stubborn, he can't let himself be so nonsensical as to allow them to get caught just to save a criminal who is clearly remorseless and responsible for many innocent deaths. However, none of this sits well. It all feels like an unpleasant stone in the pit of his stomach.

"Fine. Let's go," he says, heading for the door.

They hurry down one flight of stairs with Simmons calling emergency services on the way. She makes a second call to some "friend" at Interpol and then they exit the stairwell to head for the lift. Having left a message for her "friend", she wipes down the mobile and tosses it into a rubbish bin outside the lift just before the doors slide shut.

On the ride down, Simmons examines herself in the somewhat-reflective wall inside the lift, though it's barely more effective than a bronze-age mirror. Brushing herself off, patting her rain-misted hair back in place and adjusting her clothes, she rapidly has herself back to being completely presentable. When she looks over at him, her eyes grow almost imperceptibly larger. She immediately takes a small packet from her valise and holds it out to him.

"You're—" She gestures to his face with her other hand, making a circular motion as she grimaces slightly.

"Sweatin' like a Scot at a charity auction?" he says, in a lame attempt at a joke, hoping to lighten his own dark mood. Somehow it doesn't make him feel at all better though.

Simmons only quirks her lips but holds the packet higher.

Taking it from her and tearing into it, he continues, "Or, I s'pose, in this case, at the scene of an attempted—" He looks up sharply, realizing what he'd been about to say.

Simmons only looks back at him calmly, no suggestion of what she might be thinking on her face—no hint of the upset he'd feared.

Rather than foolishly apologize for what he hadn't said, he pushes his specs up on top of his head and quickly uses the wet wipe she'd given him to mop his face clean.

"You seem prepared for anythin'," he says, scrubbing his hands as well. "Better?" he asks her, looking at himself in the mirrored surface of the wall and smashing down his damp hair somewhat.

"Good enough," she says coolly, plucking the leftover rubbish from his fingers and dropping it into her bag. "I excel at preperation."

He sighs, bringing his specs back down to sit on his face and tries to think how to fix this latest cock-up with Simmons. He hadn't actually said it but she knows what he would've said and he had upset her evidently.

The doors open before he gets any good ideas on what to say and they head out through the lobby.

Hugh is still at the front desk and he waves just slightly as they pass. "Meeting went well?" he calls after Fitz.

"Great!" he calls back, trying to force a smile to his lips. "Thanks very much!"

Without looking, he gives a bit of a wave in return but, having to walk very quickly to keep up with Simmons (despite her shorter legs), he never even manages to look again. However, he's quite glad for Simmons' pace, because it's only a matter of minutes before they're back at Iris. A rescue tender passes by them with its siren on and flashing lights whirling as he gets in the car.

He realizes too late that Simmons is still outside, back to the door, pulling another mobile phone from her bag and making a call. He can't hear what she's saying and, though they're not on smooth terms at the moment thanks in part to his idiot gob, he finds he still trusts her completely—at least where his safety is concerned. Hanging up from her call, she walks to a nearby bin and tosses the phone away. Coming back to the Aston Martin, she throws her valise into the back seat and gets in. Then, bringing Iris to life, she pulls out of the parking space, making a very illegal turn to head the opposite direction away from the fuss at the hotel.

Tense, as he watches more service vehicles pass, Fitz finally sighs with relief once they turn onto the A24. He just allows himself relax and enjoy the absence of fearing-he-might-die as it washes through him.

"Where're we—"

"Newhaven," she answers before he can even get the question out.

"What? Newhaven? Why—"

"Because that's where we take the ferry to Dieppe," she answers smoothly again. "Also, near where I happen to know a forger who can fix up one of my passports to suit you."

Fitz scoffs. "Probably does rubbish work as well." He chuckles slightly. "I can't believe this. You're goin' to have to hire a forger to fix a passport for me when I could do that sort of work in my sleep if I only had S.T.R.I.K.E. resources."

"Well, you don't." Her voice comes out so sharply that he actually flinches, blinking back at her spasmodically.

"Simmons," he begins, knowing she must still be upset that he's not exactly thrilled with her methods when they nearly result in a death. "I'm—"

"Stop," she says, tone unwavering and not exactly unthreatening.

"Please, I just want to—"

She looks over at him and the grim set of her mouth and the hard look in her eyes is enough to make him go quiet again. He can only sigh while watching her uneasily out of the side of his eye.

By an hour later, the silence between them has become a botheration plucking incessantly on the string of his last nerve and he's about to try speaking to her again when she pulls into the car park for a dodgy-looking block of flats.

"Wait here," she tells him, not even pausing for his response before getting out and heading off without him.

She opens the boot and, though he wants to get out and say something, he's too disturbed by her behavior to actually do so. Instead, he waits.

An hour and a half later, he sees Simmons heading back out to the car. By now, it's starting to get dark and his mood isn't much better. She slides smoothly into the car and lays a British passport on his thigh. He just catches it before it slips to the floor. He opens it up and and a driving license falls out. He sees immediately that the workmanship isn't actually as awful as he'd feared. He checks the name, scoffing when he sees that it reads: James Macbeth.

"Very funny, Simmons. Really, that's just hilarious," he says, glancing over to gauge her feelings on the subject.

"Seemed appropriate," she says, not laughing or even smirking, instead she appears to be fuming just below the surface. "It was either that or perhaps the name of a venerated saint, don't you think?"

"Are you seriously mad at me?" he asks, surprised at his own gust of anger. "Just because I'm not overjoyed at the idea of killin' anyone?"

"I did not, nor was I planning on killing him," she says, letting her own irritation surge to the surface.

"How would I know?" he asks, "You certainly seem to have your mind set on killin' Ward! You told me that yourself."

"Ward is different," she says coldly, looking away out the window. But suddenly flush with another burst of indignation, she looks back to meet his eyes, and adds, "But it's best you leave behind your idealism if you want to help get yourself out of this mess we're in. There's no honor among criminals and they certainly won't hesitate to kill you or I."

"But," he begins, suddenly near-desperate to get his point across to her, "we can be better than them. We don't have to go down to their level. That's why we're the good guys."

A startling laughter bursts from her suddenly—it bubbles out of her in, what sounds like, genuine amusement. "Your naiveté is really quite adorable. I'm not sure you're cut out for what's coming, Fitz. Perhaps we need to think about another way to keep you hidden while I go it alone the rest of the way."

Fitz feels his chest tighten in fear. Somehow, he knows that if he agrees to that, Simmons will die. He doesn't question his instinct because, without memories to back up much of what he feels, he's learned in the last year to trust his gut and worry about logic later.

"No," he says in the most forceful, unyielding tone he can muster as he shakes his head slowly. "I wouldn't let you."

For a moment, she looks like she might laugh again but it dies in her throat and dissolves from her features before it even begins. As she looks over at him, her face seems to suddenly slacken, going from the hard, angry tension she's worn ever since the lift to merely relaxing into exhaustion.

"Fine," she says softly, then lets out a long deliberate sigh.

Before he has a chance to say more, she turns the key and Iris growls to life. He has no idea what to say to her anyway now that his own momentary rush of outrage has petered out. It was gone almost the instant she'd relented. He's not sure where all this leaves them now.

He's certain that he's somehow hurt her but he has absolutely no idea how to fix it.