For a too long of a moment, Ben allowed himself that comfort, her hand warm atop his, the essence of her a warm, comforting surge of energy tangling with his own shattered light, shot through with darkness. His thumbs overlapped the back of her hands, as much of an acknowledgement of that comfort as he could manage.

"You shouldn't be," he said flatly, and while it might have sounded a self-pitying, it was more an admission of truth.

"I can't take much of the credit for those choices. I think my mother might've had a hand in it," he said, and his own eyes were red-rimmed, and when he sniffed quietly, it wasn't quite as discrete as he'd hoped. "And you."

He took in a breath and reached again for his silverware.

"Your food's getting cold."