Her aim was off. The pillow sailed by him harmlessly and hit the door instead. She wasn't good with words, just then; they'd all gotten choked up in her throat. But if he left at this very moment... No. He just couldn't. He just couldn't, "Don't," and now she was well past the couch, "Don't, just," and there'd always been a distance, since the first day, that she couldn't quite bridge -- a distance she'd put between them, just about as large as the Doctor -- but now she had to find a way across it, "Just stop," and though he was still facing the door, she could hear the cracking in his voice even after he'd stopped speaking, "Just--"
She wrapped her arms around his waist from behind and pressed the side of her face against his back and held on. He still smelled the same, all starlight and wet dust, and how could he smell just exactly the same, didn't seem fair, and her fingers splayed where they lay against him.
None of it was fair. It could be him, right now, against her. It wasn't. But it felt like him, in all the ways she remembered, except for the single beating she could hear through his back. And that was okay, really, it was. She held tighter.
"What do we do? I don't know what to do."
He did. He always knew, even when he didn't. He always had a plan -- even when he didn't, he did. Always did. If he didn't turn around and hug her right now this minute, she'd --