She obviously knows that Lauren has to—that it would be good for him. But she believes him, too; such in way that her heart aches, which is so frustrating and confusing, because she's never felt this way over another person's pain before. It must be because they are grieving the same person, she thinks. She bites her lip, wetting them both as she tries to think, blinking away tears as she wrinkles her brow pensively.

She understands, then, that ultimately, she is being selfish. To be strong for Lauren right now means to endure the scent of death—for now.

"Okay," she concedes, her tone then becoming reassuring. She can feel the hot wet of his tears on her palm, and her voice cracks. "Okay. Not now, it's okay."

She moves closer, remembering the first time that Lauren had seen her cry—one of the only times—when she'd witnessed an unexpected, horrible murder with the two brothers. She moves her arms around him, giving some awkward hesitation beforehand. The blood is dry, she tells herself. Lauren had held her, restraining her with gentleness as she screamed, and stroked her hair as she heaved with panicked sobs.

She encourages him closer, not currently having the strength to completely move him, and places a kiss on him—above his brow, against his bangs, clung together with sweat and bloody mud.