It's hard to know whether he has something specific in mind, but it's a beautiful notion anyway. There are a hundred little moments she could point to-- hot coffees on stakeouts, dumb jokes, takeout orders, weary nights in forgettable diners-- and it's the best they could do. And somehow, marvelously, it was enough.

And maybe it's odd, being here-- in the house she'll move into when she leaves him, face to face with the sorrow she'll leave behind-- but all she can think of is, if she goes home and she really survives, there's so much ahead of her. Terrible motels and movies and leftovers and children and years of learning each other's bodies, and even if it all ends badly, it seems like it'll be worth it.

She props herself up a little to kiss his jaw before slumping back against his shoulder. It's all the answer she can muster.