"Hm." He frowned, helpless as he watched something raw and unnameable wrench across her face. At the Station, she'd settled in quietly, and after not but a day or two, they'd settled into a quiet routine of their own. In the three weeks since he'd left her there, he'd done little else but worry about her well-being. He'd damn near paced a trench in his living-room floor.

Now, in her red dress, with her suitcase, she seemed a world away from him. He wanted, desperately, to comfort her, but he didn't have the first idea how, or even what he would've been comforting her for.

"Lucky, hm. Yep," he croaked, hands in the pockets of his loose-fitting cardigan. He'd dropped his trash bag by the door, and hadn't even noticed.