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[On his end, Jesse is cradling the tablet, and at the sound of her voice, he lowers his head closer to the receiver so he can hear her next words better.]

It's me, yeah.

[He takes a breath, unsure for a second whether to continue or not.]

Sorry if I'm, um, bothering you. I... I wasn't sure. If you're still okay with me calling you, or - I mean, I can hang up if I'm...

[His question only reminds her of how things were left before he died. The guilt that had been slightly subsiding returned.]

Don't hang up.

[Her heart thumps wildly in her chest.]

Where are you? Can I see you?

[He tries not to sound too relieved or hopeful or desperate. Tries and fails.]

Y-Yeah, of course. Um, I'm at home.

[There's an audible thump as a sleepy Lisbeth almost trips putting on her pants.]

Stay there. Don't leave.

[There might be a slight panic in her voice, but she reels it back in.]

I'll be there as fast as I can.

[He sounds somewhat incredulous:]

Okay.

[Hey, it turns out it's a lot colder at night in Exsilium than it is in Sweden. To the point that when she finally reaches the home, she's slamming on the door with an open hand. Lisbeth sticks her hands underneath her arms to keep them warm. It's too cold to even think about what she will do once he opens that door.]

[He's waiting for her at the door like a dog waiting for its owner, and although he'd like to wait a moment and make it seem like he wasn't, he can't help but open up for her immediately.]

[As soon as the door opens, she doesn't give him a second glance as she pushes past and into the house. She keeps her gloves on to warm up her hands more quickly. Lisbeth finally turns around to look at Jesse.]

[He shuts the door behind her and remains standing by it, his chin lowered, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. Physically, he looks just like she left him. There's no trace remaining of the damage that was inflicted upon him. The only change is in his stance: meek, docile, nearly cringing.

He's waiting for this to hurt.]

[Lisbeth isn't the best at reading body language unless her survival required her to do so. She feels something strange about him, but she chalks it up to their last conversation. It's silent between them. Normally, Lisbeth enjoys silence, but this feels heavy. The proverbial elephant in the room is sitting right on her chest.

She shifts her weight from one foot to the next. Lisbeth is not really good at this, but she speaks first.]

I'm.. I shouldn't... [She takes a short breath.] No one fucking tells me what to do and that's the last time I'm letting you.

[Oh shit, did that sound right?]

[He... nods. Subtly. Confused, but not arguing.]

Okay.

[She explains herself.]

Staying away from you had nothing to do with the thing with Sonya or anything else. It had to do with a conversation we have constantly about how I can get hurt being around you, but fuck it.

[Lisbeth pauses.]

I say fuck it. I'm sticking around and whatever you attract that has made you believe that you are bad for me - if it's karma or whatever - better get used to me being here for a long fucking time.

[These are words that she's repeated to herself over and over, not knowing if she'd ever get to say them. But she has and her chest feels lighter.]

I love you and fuck the world if it doesn't like that.

[It's everything he wants to hear right now. He wants so much to take it at face value, to accept her love without question and to do what he should have done a long time ago and simply give himself up to it, embrace it wholeheartedly and let go of every doubt and insecurity that's stood in his way.

But he can't.

This isn't love talking. She didn't come to this all on her own, out of passion or desire or whatever makes people get over their inhibitions and go after something they really want despite all the risks and the danger. He knows exactly what prompted this. And it wouldn't be right, accepting something like this given out of guilt.]

Lisbeth... It's not your fault I killed myself.

[Lisbeth doesn't realize she's holding her breath until his response is the one she wasn't expecting. She releases, feeling physically deflated as well as emotionally. That's not the usual response to these things. Where was the elation? The happiness? The feeling that everything was going to be okay? Lisbeth's eyes dart around with her confusion.]

So somehow my guilt influences my perception of what I feel for you? Yeah, I'll admit that I laid in bed for almost a month because the only thing I could think about was what went through your head when it happened. That I compared myself to every motherfucker that probably left you out to dry almost every day.

But it's not like the moment I told you I had to think about your request, I washed my hands of you.

I know.

But you weren't sure before. And you're sure now. And the only thing that's happened between now and then is I made one more big goddamn mistake.

Me shooting myself full of heroin shouldn't be the thing that convinces you that you wanna be with me. I can't let it be.

[She's still mad over the fact that at a moment where she wears her heart on her sleeve, it's not received as one would expect it to be. So mad that her lips are pursed and her hands are suddenly in her pockets as she looks away and to the ground.

But when he puts it into perspective, she repeats it to herself in her head. It shouldn't. Most people wouldn't go running back to an addict who overdosed. Most people came running back when they were clean. It should be something admirable, not deplorable.

Lisbeth runs her tongue along the inside of her bottom lip.]

What happens now?

[She has every right to be angry. Anger's probably the healthiest response to have. Jesse takes a breath and raises his chin, resisting the urge to look away from her.]

What happens now is what I called you for: I tell you how sorry I am.

Lisbeth, I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. For what I did, for the past month, for the past year. And I'm not telling you this so you'll forgive me, or so you'll love me, or so you'll tell me it's okay. I'm just saying it for you. I know that I hurt you. I know I'm hurting you right now. I can't even promise I'll ever stop hurting you, and I'm sorry for that, too.

You don't owe me anything - least of all, what you're trying to give me. You're right, I can't tell you what to do. I can't tell you to stop loving me, but I can tell you I haven't earned it. I don't deserve it, just like you don't deserve the shit I been throwing at you since the day I met you.

I wanna stop being the mess you feel like you gotta clean up. I wanna deserve your love. I wanna be the kinda man you wanna be with because I'm good for you, not 'cause you're scared of what'll happen to me without you.

I'm sorry for what I done and I am begging for the chance to make it right. Let me prove myself. Then decide if I'm really the person you want.

[Lisbeth's kneejerk reaction is to say that he has nothing to be sorry for, but some little voice inside tells her to shut up. Everything he says is true, as much as it hurts her to admit it. Lisbeth felt the need to pick him up, dust him off, and keep him going. She even felt that if she didn't keep an eye on him, he would get himself killed.

Barring what happened last month, of course.

It's been a co-dependent relationship, mostly on her part. The need to control because that's what she understood as being loving. The control wasn't anything malicious - she didn't alienate him, she didn't hit him. Lisbeth doesn't care much when it comes to people, but she cared too much when it came to him.

He's also apologizing for hurting her and no one has ever done that. Even if whatever he's done doesn't compare in the slightest to what other men have done to her, it's still an apology.

Lisbeth looks up at him and then nods.]

Okay. Then let's start over.

[Jesse brings his hands together, almost as if in prayer, and bows his head. The next words are breathed with a sigh of relief:]

Thank you.

[He steps forward and reaches out, not to embrace her (though he wants to, very badly) but to gently cup her face and brush his palms over her cheeks.]

Are you okay?

[As prickly as she may be most of the time and at that moment, her shoulders visibly relax when Jesse touches her face. She covers one of his hands with her own.]

It doesn't get any warmer than four degrees Celcius, I actually have to do manual labor to heat the house, and the coffee tastes like shit.

[She turns her head slightly to smile gently into his hand.]

I'm doing horribly.

[Jesse lets out a laugh. Not a derisive or scoffing laugh, but softer, like there's deeply comforting about what she just said. Because if those are the worst of her problems, then everything's alright here.]

I thought Swedish people liked the cold.

Stockholm still might be covered in snow in April, but we still have summer months.

This winter wonderland is a little excessive, but my grayscale wardrobe doesn't look out place. That's a silver lining.

[His smile brightens. ]

Did you just make a pun on purpose or by accident?

What..?

[She quickly thinks back on what she said.]

Oh fuck me.

[She laughs, embarrassed, and uses his hands to cover her face.]

[He laughs again. And god, it feels good. He hopes he doesn't wake up from this, doesn't blink and find himself in the meth lab again or down in his cell.]

You oughta become a comedian.

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