In a kinder time, she would make light; interpret his words as if they were about the uncomfortable nature of the tangle they have ended in. Instead Alexandrie only nods, perhaps felt more than seen with his face against her hair as it is. There is not much to say. After all, he's correct. Nothing is right. The world is like a joint pulled from its socket, save that there is no work that can be done, no force that can be applied, to put it back.

She breathes, as evenly as she can. Begins the work of shifting herself so that at least this small discomfort can be alleviated, moving and replacing herself in such a way that none of her movement will feel like a withdrawal.

In the end, she will have inched herself up— with an apologetic touch for his cheek to have disturbed how he had come to stillness, even if it too had been not right— so that he can rest in the hollow of her shoulder. To let a hand idle in pulling her fingers gently and repetitively through his hair, dip her head to rest her lips against the top of his head as he had hers.