She continues looking at him without saying anything in response, shifting her body to help him ease the fabric off. She carefully slips her hands out of the cuffs, a smattering of yellow ovals on one of her wrists that won't be bruises until morning.

She doesn't question him any further. For one, she's tired of the constant back and forth verbal matches that come from trying to reason out where his head is. For another, she can see that he didn't leave to leave for good. He meant to come back, he cared enough about what happened while she was on her own to do something about it — admittedly, something stupid, but the thought was there all the same — and now this. She thinks finally she's figured something out about him, so there's no need for pointless grilling.

She tilts her head, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and starts on the buttons to his shirt.

"I didn't think you was comin' back."