If she ever decides to hate him, to leave, it would hurt. It would gut him. It would--prove that telling people is the wrong choice, reinforce his decision as being the correct one.

But she stays. She lays a hand on his arm. The miles between them on this bench feel a lot shorter now.

He won't apologize for being what he is. He won't apologize for waiting to tell her. Under other circumstances, ones different from this, he probably would've kept it for as long as possible. Maybe if he hadn't come along, for instance. He doesn't owe her any explanation for himself.

She gets it. And she gets that situations are complicated. That people are complicated. That there are no easy, simple solutions.

They're going to be okay. Not right away, maybe. But they'll get there. He's never had a child and certainly won't ever at this point, and he would never think to even suggest anything that sounds like trying to replace Joel. He wouldn't put that on her. But he thinks, sometimes, that maybe he sees what it's like. Maybe across time and space and reality and unreality and life and death, he feels the briefest flicker of kinship with a man who had no relation to this young woman and treated her like a daughter anyway.

He moves his arm so he can offer his hand instead, wordlessly, palm up and open.