Rei doesn't say a word.

The silence stretches between you. He can feel an old familiar ache in his chest. The moon watches through the window, an indifferent witness to his penance.

Finally, when the silence becomes unbearable, a torture more exquisite than any stake through the heart, he murmurs, "My lady, I'm sorry."

The words come out embarrassedly. He brings your hand to his lips, pressing a tender kiss against your skin. It is desperate. A search for forgiveness written in the language of touch. He continues cooing against your knuckles: "Please, don't be angry with me. I cannot stand seeing you upset,'' his voice drops lower, "I value our bond more than you could possibly imagine.''

His fingers intertwine with yours, and he tugs gently, bringing you closer until your breaths mingles in the narrow space between.

Then, devastatingly, he nearly whines. Like a goddamn puppy, he thinks bitterly. Him, reduced to this: searching for his owner's attention like a mongrel at the doorstep. Three months. Three months of schedules and obligations and distances he couldn't bridge, and for what? To stand here now, this close and yet so far.