[He gives her a slow nod, holding her gaze. Mostly, it's to drink in the look of her, so he can call her up in his mind in the coming days, see her whenever he wills whether they can both reach the Horizon or no.

It's a helpless sort of love, he decides. He has chosen her with clear eyes, a clear mind. Yet he also knows, looking at her, that he could not have done otherwise.]

I'll try to come here every day. If the children need you more, it's all right. If you can't get here, or if I can't, that's all right too.

Things get worse where I am, I'll let you know.

[The rest of the time they have here, he just wants to hold her, kiss her, feel her against him. Not the lovemaking that might happen otherwise, not today -- though that might come another day, depending how long each of them is trapped where they are, and how much time they can each find to spend here. But it feels good to hold her tightly in his arms. It feels right.

Because back in Thorne, he feels lost and small and frustrated, trapped, pinned to a point of inaction.]