[ There's a flicker in his expression at that comment. Was she referring to their last moments together, when he held her body as it rapidly lost its warmth? Or could she be referring to what he, himself, had been referring to? The dream? It seems impossible, but so does the idea of meeting her again at all. Yet here he is. ]

Sorry. I ended up having quite a busy graduation season. I was the substitute teacher for a very rambunctious class. [ he tries to talk lightly and easily, like he always does, but it's strained, noticeably so; the tranquil of death that enveloped him is starting to fade the longer he stands here before her. Right now, he's still confused. The truth of the matter is obvious, and is beginning to dawn on his heart, but his logical mind is still processing it all.

However, it doesn't take him any time to decide to take her hand. He'd touched her before, in his dream, and before, with his tentacles; never before this has he touched her with his own hand. He's never really known the gentle warmth of her skin without the spectre of death hanging over it, or how her smaller hand might fit in his without a layer of antimatter tentacles between them. It's never felt so real. Suddenly, he's back in that little room behind a wall of plexiglass, and he thinks that he's been waiting for a long time, too.

His eyes linger on their hands, then drift back up to her face, somewhat searchingly. ]

But now, I think that I'm finally going to have some free time. [ this is real, isn't it? ]