( it still seems a little surreal, that he'd let her come so easily, without any bit of a fight or restraint. maybe it's because he knows he's tucked off enough that he isn't putting her into harmful sights by allowing her to stay; maybe a night isn't as haunting as two; maybe he, too, could use the company both of their tongues find hesitance before admitting outright. loneliness was a human condition, a common one at that.

why was it, then, everyone seemed so ashamed to admit it?

for a moment, she wonders how the city would take him back. what the prints might put out there, if they'd even pay any mind at all given how wrapped around fisk's finger they were. then again, it'd give him a too-convenient means of keeping himself covered, introducing a distraction much like that psuedo-daredevil to the mix to rise himself up on the deceitful pedestal of helping hells kitchen. putting it back together while he fed on it's roots.

and she wants him back, selfishly, she does. and yet: ) I don't blame you.

( fingers of one hand prod habitually at the palm of the other, a fidgeting, needing something to occupy an empty, idle touch. )

For taking time, I mean. I can't imagine it's any easier to come back than it is to stay. ( because there's something always urging her, tugging her, begging her out. )

Just a little sugar is fine. ( an aftertaste of sweetness at first obscured by the bitter coffee. )