He catches her rubbing tiredly at her temples midway to Dromund Kaas. A sure sign that she would have a full blown headache by the time they reached their destination. And a sure sign that some trust has been regained - she would never let him see any weakness in her if she wasn't at least beginning to forgive him.
Out of habit or desperation, he makes her tea. The same way he made her tea when she was feeling distressed or unwell before he lost the right to do even that for her.
At some point during the process she'd retreated to her quarters - for quiet or darkness or just to prevent the others from seeing her feeling anything but perfectly strong and healthy.
He knocks - once upon a time he didn't have to - and waits. The lights are low when she opens the door, the shadows thicker around her. She steps aside and allows him to enter, a small, pleased smile on her lips.
For a moment, he can't. He's watching her smile at him - not smirk - without malice, without baring her teeth, without any hurt lurking behind her eyes and the relief is overwhelming.
"Quinn, if you keep standing in my doorway, I'm going to shut it on you," she says, but there's no real anger in her voice, "And I would hate to do that to my tea."
"Yes, my lord." He moves past her, careful not to touch without her permission and sets the tray with its little teapot (a gift from her family that she insisted on keeping and using) and cups on her desk.
He pours tea for her, leaving the extra cup that he should have remembered to remove but she stops him with a hand on his shoulder.
It's not an order to stay. It's a choice. The entire encounter feels strangely out of time to him. Like he'd never betrayed her trust.
"If you wish me to, my lord, I will remain here."
She reaches around him to pour tea into the second cup and hands it to him. He stiffens with her nearly pressed to his back. They'd been intimate since it happened but it had been sex without affection. It hurt but he desperately wanted whatever she would give him anyway.
She sits on the bed, focusing on her tea but she's still half smiling.
He doesn't drink the tea. He watches her, wondering what's happening. If he's not dreaming that she still feels some tenderness for him.
"My lord," he starts and stops himself, unsure.
She raises her head up from looking at her tea as if could tell her the answers to all her questions and refocuses on him.
"My lord... what is this?" He finally makes himself ask.
She makes an amused sound. Better than angry or hateful.
He swallows thickly but doesn't try to ask again. Pursuing the issue if she's unwilling to answer will just make things worse and they've only begun to appear to be getting better.
"Of course, my lord." He does a good job of not sounding dejected. He'd hoped…but he should know better than that. He hasn't earned hope.
He does drink the tea then. Just in small sips - he doesn't really want it but he does want to prolong the time spent in her company when she's feeling pleasant.
She's still watching him though, less amused and more measuring. He waits for whatever conclusion she's come to, his heart beating so hard he's sure she must hear it.
"I do still love you," she says, voice pitched low making the conversation sound more intimate.
"My lord..." He starts but he can't finish, she's set aside her tea and gotten to her feet and there's so little room between them that either taking a step forward would close it entirely.
He can't. He doesn't need to, she does it for him.
In a single step she's nearly pressed against him. She takes the tea from his hands and sets it aside and then slips her arms around his waist.
He wants to crush her against him in a desperate embrace but this moment is too fragile, it needs gentleness if it's going to survive. So he holds her against him tenderly, letting his head rest against hers.
"I love you," he whispers against the soft strands of her hair. Not that he needs to, that there has been any question since she spared his life that he lives for her and her alone. But he likes the way it sounds and the way she nuzzles against his shoulder when he says it.
He's almost afraid to breathe, to blink, to look away for fear that she'll disappear if he does. That he'll wake and she'll be gone.
She slides one hand up his back, up his neck (he shivers here) and lets it rest on the back of his head.
"I'm here," she says firmly, as if she could read his mind, and pulls him down to kiss him. Her kiss isn't forceful or demanding like the others they've shared since Corellia. Once, he might have been ashamed at how much he's missed her and the loving parts of their relationship. Now, it's all he can do not to collapse from relief.
For the first time in a long time, he feels joy untainted by his mistakes.
