It's a good thing he can't see her face while she's standing like this, forehead butting into his chest like she's one of those goats outside looking for a handout of grain, because it means he can't see the way it crumples at his quiet words.

She hadn't cried at the funeral. She hadn't cried in the days after, aside from the few tears she allowed herself after she spoke to him and Steve and Sam on the phone. And when she'd gone on the run, she'd pushed all that grief down into a cold part of herself that she could lock up for as long as she needed to.

All of a sudden, the last six weeks feel so, so very long, and she is so tired of trying to keep her distance from it all, and it turns out those tears were all lying in wait for a moment just like this one, as her shoulders shake and the patch of shirt she presses her face into grows damp.

"I really miss her," she says, thickly, when she can.