Morphine

He's here.

When she saw him, a huge wave of relief washed over her, dribbling from her scalp to slow (make rapid?) her beating heart; soaking all the way to her toes and soothing the frazzled nerve endings along the length of her arms and legs. (Or was the feeling more like a huge weight had lifted, making her feel all limp and weightless and intoxicated?)

Either way, her reaction to his arrival was a cliché. He was like a drug. A calming little potion, a kiss on a boo-boo.

"Logan! You're here! But how? I wasn't expecting you for hours yet, what with the Friday night traffic from the city and your work and I know you have a meeting which," she pauses, looking at her watch, "you are currently missing! Oh God, you shouldn't have! I—we—are fine here, and Grandma had spoken with the doctor and he said that Grandpa—"

She was swiftly interrupted by his mouth pressing gently on hers, his palm cupping her cheek. It felt like a drug.

Lifting his head a moment later, he silently took in her slightly furrowed forehead, a faint line appearing between her eyebrows. Her eyes were tired and watery.

"How are you?"

Fearing she would weep if she spoke, Rory buried her face against his neck instead, clutching at his coat lapels. She inhaled the remnants of his after-shave against his five-o-clock stubble. He rubbed slow circles on her back, and her stiffness turned pliant.

"Thank you for being here."