After Colorado, she hasn't been in her apartment ten minutes before she calls him. She feels vulnerable and on edge and in pain – she wouldn't let him drive her home because she doesn't want to be fussed over, but it turns out she doesn't want to be alone either. He answers on the first ring. "I'll be right over."
When he arrives, he follows her to the kitchen, watching the way she tries to cover up the pain, the way it obviously hurts to smile but she does it anyway every time she looks at him. Every word he wants to say to her gets lost in his throat. About how he realised when she was in there that he would have done just about anything to get her out alive and whole, how every time she cried out in pain it tore through him… She reaches across the counter for a bottle of wine and hisses with pain, her hands coming up to her ribs, and finally, he finds his voice. "Emily, let me."
She drops her hands to the counter and her chin to her chest, her back turned to him, and he finds himself at her side a second later, resting a hesitant hand on her back. "I'm sorry," he says quietly, because if he says it any louder she'll hear the quiver in his voice. He can still hear her taking that beating. "I'm sorry I put you in there. I'm sorry you got hurt and I'm sorry I couldn't come in."
She shakes her head. "Not your fault," she says, her voice just as soft. He can hear it wavering anyway. "You couldn't have known. I'd do it again."
"I know."
"I've had worse."
Well, that doesn't help. His stomach clenches at the thought, because he knows she chose this job, but nobody chooses this. "God, Emily, that's…"
She smiles, turns toward him with shining eyes, so the hand that was on her back settles on her waist. It feels good, warm and soft over internal bruising. And safe, and a lot of other things she doesn't want to think about. She holds it there. "It's okay."
"Is there anything I can do?" he asks, brushing his thumb over her ribs. "A bath, or… Ice…"
She shakes her head, the concern in his voice cutting straight through her so a tear slips down her cheek before she can catch it. "God, sorry," she mutters, turning away, wiping at her stinging face.
He takes her by the shoulders and turns her slowly, lifts her chin up. Her eyes don't quite meet his, tears streaking her bruised cheeks, and his throat starts to ache. "You know, it's okay to cry," he tells her, and she gives him a weak half smile. "I'd be worried if you didn't."
"I know," she mutters. "I just… Don't."
He nods, wipes the tears from her face as gently as he can. "Well, now is an okay time to break that rule." She keeps her eyes on his, wide and so dark he finds himself staring, looking for where her pupils start. He realises too late he's looked too long, dropped his hands to her waist, and her expression is softening into something that has his pulse racing. He takes a deep breath, pushes away all the reasons this is a terrible idea and concentrates on the depths of her eyes, the curve of her waist under his palms. "Can I kiss you?"
She blinks once, twice, then her face breaks into a smile that must hurt. "Yes."