Chris is careful to not bump into her injured arm; he might be a reckless wildcard at times, but he’s all kid gloves when it comes to avoiding hurting Marie. (At least, physically. At least, more than he already had when fucking up their relationship.) So he steers clear of her arm, grasping at her face instead, the angles of her jaw, the nape of her neck and the tangled coil of her hair as they deepen the kiss.

Somewhere during that headlong crash into each other, he bumps into the door and it starts to obligingly open again. “Oh, shit,” he mutters, then waves frantically at it to close it again, before he presses the button to lock it properly.

And then his attention’s back on Marie. He runs his thumb across the line of her cheekbone, tracing the corner of her mouth. She looks more drawn and wan than she used to, the marks of her hospital stay still on her, but there’s a radiant buoyant happiness and relief bubbling up in both of them.

“Hi,” he says.