His chest aches at seeing her so distressed, anger rising once again at Piaget. None of this needed to happen. He kisses the top of her head, one of his hands smoothing back her hair, keeping his own demeanor as calm as possible to help tell her body it was safe.

"It's still fresh," he says. "Your mind is working through it; that's good. It will dull with time." But when she apologizes, he shakes his head, voice stern. "I don't want you to apologize for that. Ever." But he's glad she leans against him, glad she's talking about it. As she resettles, he sweeps an arm under her, pulling her legs across his lap as he adjusts himself, just wanting her to feel cradled and safe.

"It's not fair," he agrees. "But every time your mind realizes you're safe, he'll get farther away."