They hold each other quietly, both of them sitting with their old hurts, the scars they learned to carry over the years. It’s a melancholy thing to take stock of all the hurt, Carver thinks, but he presses his head against hers and that’s a quiet sort of comfort.

I love you, he thinks, but does not say. They’d both have to live with the aftermath if he said it and couldn’t back it up with anything more than that truth. They’re tangled in each other now, the kitten sleeping peacefully next to them. It’s a melancholy sort of peace, but it’s real—isn’t it?

Maybe it could be, Carver thinks, and closes his eyes. Maybe they can hold each other for a little while, and it doesn’t have to hurt.