For the short time they'd spent together, they've always been ridiculously in sync to the point of annoyance. She can remember wanting to hide things from him, birthday presents, dinner plans, a small surprise of his favourite pastry for dessert, anything, and he's always been able to see right through her. They'd never done secrets well - except for the obvious - and she realises as she's watching him think that they still don't. She can still read him like a book, and his eyes are fixated on that ridiculous piece of hair that she can feel falling in her face again. She knows what it means, knows he's thinking about the proposal before she even has to ask, and it's both devastating and wonderful all at once.

She doesn't know, looking at him now, how she could ever have walked away. That first night, all through dinner she'd been over the moon, desperately excited to marry him and buy a fucking dog and live happily ever after, and then they'd gone to bed and she lay awake, remembering what he could do and stricken to the core with fear about what she'd be getting herself into. It was stupid, so stupid, but it is what it is.

"I'm sure he's not as fragile as you think," she says, and she doesn't know whether they're talking about the dog or Shea anymore but it doesn't matter.