Prompt: Henry might be able to joke about the time they broke up before he proposed, but Elizabeth can't even talk about it without feeling sick.

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His remarks had been offhand and good-natured, and Elizabeth knew it. Yet, Henry's mention of their short-lived breakup that had prefaced his proposal had left Elizabeth sitting on the bed with her stomach churning. He cracked a joke from the bathroom, his voice drifting back to reach her in the bedroom. When she neither laughed or replied, Henry's head appeared around the doorway, concern on his face. It was amplified when he caught sight of Elizabeth on the bed, her knees drawn up to her chest.

"Hey, what's wrong?" he asked, taking a tentative step toward her. She shrugged.

"I just don't like to think about it," she admitted. Even her voice was closed off, and Henry felt his heart drop a little bit. He hadn't meant to upset her, and now he felt a vague sense of panic, unsure what to do. He was still so new at this- they both were- and the last thing he had ever wanted to do was make her look at him the way she was now.

"I- I'm sorry," he said, feeling that it was quite an inadequate response, but unsure how else to proceed. He watched her curl in on herself just a little bit more and felt it in his chest. Deciding that he should just follow his instincts, Henry took one, two, three hesitant steps toward her and sat down next to her on the bed. She looked up at him, vulnerable and unsure herself, and Henry was reminded forcefully of their youth and inexperience with it all.

"No, I'm- it's stupid," she said dismissively. As she turned her gaze away from him, he could almost feel her shutting down, throwing up protective walls that he wanted so desperately to be on the other side of.

"No, it isn't," he said softly. She glanced over at him and he wrapped a warm, protective arm around her shoulders. She leaned almost imperceptibly into him and he pressed his lips to her head.

"It isn't?" she asked tentatively.

"No, of course not," he assured her. "I was being insensitive. I guess I just didn't consider the fact that, since you don't have all the information, you might view the whole thing differently than I do."

She pulled back slightly to look at him inquisitively, taking the bait.

"What do you mean, I don't have all the information?" she asked, and Henry smiled slightly at her.

"Well...I guess you probably thought, when I left, that there was a chance I wasn't coming back," he surmised. She nodded slowly.

"Yeah, a decent one at that. I mean...you left," she added uncertainly, and Henry nodded.

"Yes, and that probably wasn't entirely fair," he admitted, "because I knew that there wasn't a chance I wasn't coming back."

Elizabeth let that sink in for a moment, meeting his warm hazel eyes.

"There wasn't?" she asked. Henry shook his head.

"No," he confirmed with confidence in his voice. He kissed her forehead lightly and pulled her slightly closer to him.

"I was always coming back to you, Elizabeth. I never considered leaving you for good, not for a second."

There was something incredibly reassuring about the certain way he said those words, the way his gaze on hers never wavered, the way he held her close as he spoke. Suddenly, Elizabeth didn't feel so sick anymore. There was something about Henry and his reassurances that seemed to have that effect on her, something that was almost magical. Her insecurity was still there, and she still wondered, but it wasn't so bad. Not so intense, not so hard to deal with. Fading away slowly, but surely, as Henry held her. She didn't ever want that feeling to go away, that sense of security that Henry lent to her.

"I wouldn't," Henry said after a moment of comfortable silence had passed. She glanced up at him and he met her gaze again.

"I wouldn't leave you," he clarified. "You're everything, Elizabeth. I wouldn't have left you then, and I wouldn't now."

Often, especially over the course of the years since the death of her parents, Elizabeth had felt it necessary to call into question the sincerity of the things people said to her. It had become all but habit, and she often did it without thinking. But not now. Not with Henry. She took his words to heart, instantly. She didn't need to wonder, didn't need to question. Because she knew. She knew that he meant what he said, and if he said it, it was with purpose and he had a reason for doing so. Henry, she could trust. And she did. That, she thought as she snuggled into him, was the best feeling in the world.

Well, that, and being wrapped up there with him, just like that.