He turned to her again… and his eyes hit with a shockwave of such… cold. Not cold feeling from him to her—never; nor a cold heart, since his somehow, despite all the betrayals and losses, never stopped beating kind and warm. It was the coldness that had settled into his bones of the isolation he'd lived in for so long. So far from the sun of connections; the cold numb simplicity of hermitry, that he hadn't even realised felt like that until just now, under the return of the blazing fire of Lily Evans Potter. He even flexed his fingers, as if his extremities were regaining sensation. And with the thaw was the doubt and fear and wonder, if this was truly real or was the kind of dream he'd stopped having every moment but had never stopped entirely; if he was setting himself up for anguish when he woke and it was gone; or if it was true and he no longer knew how to do things like be with others. How much more tangled and complex other people were… but also how much warmer. And how he'd forgotten that he missed it.

"I shouldn't even need one," he said. …One hour. They were still on that topic. "And I kept some floo powder around, just in case, if we want to cut that further."

He reached out, too, tentatively, to touch a strand of her hair over her shoulder. "Will… you… still be here? If I turn around?"