He shuffles closer into her when she turns into him, curling his body so it fits hers better. He's sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry and it's too late. Far, far too late. Her touch is soothing but the guilt has opened up the wound over his heart wide and it's gaping. Too slow, too late, too weak. She says his name and he knows he's bothering her, worrying her. It's not right for him to make her upset. Not when she's finally got sunshine and more flowers than she could ever pick to fuss over. He's supposed to make sure she's happy while she's here, not sad. So he forces his way around the pain and he looks up at her with blue, blue eyes and a soft whine. Sorry. Again. Don't be worried. How can I make you happy?