She'd thought she was done for before, when she was drinking him in, remembering every tiny feature and having sparks go off in her memory like fireworks. It's like she can suddenly remember every minute they spent together etched out on his face. Then he speaks, softly and looking at his shoes, and his pronunciation is as good as it ever has been, she wonders if he's been practising or whether it's all muscle memory flooding back. Still, the sound of him speaking to her in her own language sends a jolt down her spine and she has to bite her lip again to prevent herself from saying something fucking stupid like je t'aime.

"Are... Are you sure?" He's inviting her over, and it's late, and this is more than she bargained for. The idea is so tempting she feels like she's dreaming, and she can't believe that the offer of sitting around with him drinking wine ever came back into her future as a possibility. She knows that he's hurting, so is she, and she knows it's taken a lot of effort for him to allow her this. She doesn't want to ruin it again. "I'd like that. Really."

She picks up the bottle of Château-Grillet and hesitates. She's half expecting him to rescind the offer and she doesn't know what she's supposed to do now.