He pulled slowly back from her, knuckles smearing away his tears.
Her thumb was still rubbing soothing circles on his back.
For the past several minutes he had said nothing, merely letting the emotion overwhelm him.
Now it was time to face her.
But when he looked up at the woman filled with love, all he saw was the angry red mark on her jaw.
He had done this.
The victim had become the aggressor.
He began to shake his head. She could see the self loathing in his eyes.
"You didn't mean it. It doesn't matter," she assured him, but he didn't want assurance.
"I'll go tomorrow," he said sharply.
"What?"
He stood up.
"But what if I don't want you to go?" she asked resolutely.
He walked away, "It doesn't matter."
The door closed.
She bit her bottom lip.
It mattered to her.
He lay in the spare room in the darkness. He had made progress. But obviously not enough. He wouldn't hurt her again and if that meant not being here, the place that felt more like a home to him than any he had known, then so be it.
In the morning he would go back to London.
Alone.
The sun was bright, trying to burn its way into the room.
Harry woke.
He was not alone.
In a chair in the corner sat Ruth, a blanket pulled around her.
"Talk to me, Harry. You have to talk to me and then if you still want to leave that's fine."
He gave her no answer, but lay back in the bed and glared at the ceiling.
"Disassociate yourself, you know the routine," she said calmly, "tell me what happened to Harry Pierce."
He stared harder and harder, the white ceiling becoming his screen and soon the images followed and he described them to Ruth.
He spent two hours telling her what he saw above him, what had been done to the man in the pictures, the weeks of torture endured.
He told her it was the thought of her that helped him rise above the pain. He told her of his lack of desire to survive. He told her what he had revealed to his captors. He told her all of the things that brought him shame.
He told her all.
When he had finished they remained in silence; he still peering at the now empty screen above; her wiping the tears from her face.
She stood up, the blanket still gathered around her shoulders and crossed to him. She climbed onto the bed and draped an arm across his chest, wrapping them both in the blanket's enveloping warmth, her head resting against his shoulder.
"I have to go and see the Home Secretary," she said eventually.
She could feel his small nod of understanding.
"I'd like it very much if you were still here when I got back." she glanced up to him.
His eyes were still lost to her.
Gently her fingers traced his face, her lips placing a featherlite kiss on his cheek.
And then she got up.
She took a taxi to the station, leaving the car in front of the house.
It was an act of faith.
He got up. Had a cup of coffee. And then he drove away.