[He's tense, when she lays her hands on him for the first time, feeling under the microscope in a way he hasn't felt like since he was a child. Since adults grabbed at his cheeks, owners of caravans sized him up for what he could carry, what he was worth in the curve of his jaw and the cut of his smile on the stage. But he wasn't alone then, not like he's thought for so long. She was always there. There, with the same face and the same hands and he, in the end, is the one who changed.

She became a fucking lich, and he's more worried about this.

He tries to follow her fingers for a moment, but gives up on it, closing his eyes too. Letting them sit in the purgatory of what he created, the messy space of vulnerability.

And thankfully, blissfully, she shatters it by jamming her fucking thumb up his nose, and he sputters immediately in the most undignified yelp, wrenching himself away and ending up flopping back on his bed, laughter shaking his chest.]

Jeez, guess I gotta still be pretty if you can't keep your hands away from tryin' to climb in my face, jeez.

[He tilts himself up on his elbows so he can look at her again, for once, the spell forgotten. He'll put it back up later- he doesn't want to see himself, like this. But he hoped this meant something. He hopes she knows it means something.]

Well, now I guess you're all caught up. That's, uh, that's everything. Really.

[He is completely and utterly forgetting to talk about Kravitz right now. Honestly, all he can think of is how happy to have her back.

He's not letting her go again, either. She's not just back. They're back.

And that's what's important, in the end.]