[ Something is infinitely better than the previous nothing and he doesn't hesitate for a second when she finally steps in. He wraps his arms tightly around her shoulders, desperately clutching her to his chest. There's relief here, an overwhelming amount that escalates into a shuddering sigh — he can handle broken, but he can't handle nothing. Broken you can mend, but nothing is just... nothing. Cold and empty and dead.
Like the empty desk opposite his. Or a gun and a letter in an abandoned cabin. Or the smell of freshly dug dirt, six feet deep. You can't do anything about nothing.]
I'm so sorry... [ It's more a whimper than words. ]