[She kisses him. When she's done kissing him, she stays; doesn't move away except enough to breathe, to smile, to show him how pink she's gone at words that, to him, are common-sense truths. Leaning his forehead against hers, he huffs out a breath, overwhelmed and flustered himself.]

[See? You trust me so much.]

I — trust you with everything. [His nose brushes against hers with a slight movement, brow furrowing, sort of pensive.] Not just my life, but . . . all the bad stuff. I trust you're gonna still love me if you know all of it. Even if I don't remember it now, I remember the feeling of telling you and . . . you didn't go away.

So I'm lucky, too. 'Cause I need to trust somebody with the bad things. I wasn't really alone before, there were a bunch of people around, but I felt alone, you know? And I don't anymore, not with you.