He's learned to stop asking questions.
He idly strokes his Eevee as it burrows its head into his shoulder, making small mewling sounds. It's three in the morning, and unlike him, it demands to know why this was so important, why he had to get up and open the door when the bell wouldn't stop ringing, why he had also opened up his home and hearth and fridge when the door had closed behind her, why Green had squished his poor Eevee between the girl and himself when he wrapped her in a silent embrace, heavy with gratefulness and words left unsaid.
He doesn't have any answers, so he says nothing, listening to the clink of the spoon against the bone-white bowl, the harsh drone of the old fluorescent bulb overhead. It always takes a few minutes for the light to flicker on, buzzing like a dying moth around a flame. Like most of Green's life, the kitchen is old and worn around the edges, clean but with dirt indelibly etched into the tiniest spaces, shadowy cracks lacing the tile countertops. He's a neat and orderly man, and he does his best to tuck in the corners and crease the folds, but there are a lot of things in his life that he has no control over. He accepted that long ago.
She runs her finger around the bottom of the bowl, delicately bringing the last swirl of ice cream to her lips. She sucks her finger clean, her eyes closed as if in concentration, and when they open again, they meet his gaze. He's lounged back in his chair, his eyes half-lidded, looking completely relaxed as his mind races on.
"How long?" he asks. It's the one question he always asks, the only one he can say; not Where have you been, it's been six months and ten days, Who have you been with, What have you been doing, Tell me about your life, tell me what you've seen and heard and done, tell me everything, I can't live without you.
Her eyes glimmer as they stare back at him, and the expression is complicated: amusement, understanding, soft, resigned apology, affection.
"Not long," she says, as she always does. "A few days, a week."
He nods, swallowing the words down. Eevee has fallen back asleep, and its tiny snores are masked by the breathless electric whine of the light. He stands, settling the Pokémon gently on the countertop; it complains for a moment at the sudden cold and curls up into a fluffy ball before sinking back into oblivion. He reaches over and picks her bowl up, then moves to the sink and turns the faucet on. He hates seeing dirty dishes in the morning.
Her hands slip around his waist, her touch as light as a dream, and she rests her cheek on his back, breathing him in. He lets her, his hands moving in slow soapy circles, thinking, thinking, thinking.
"I love you," Leaf whispers, and it's almost lost to the rushing water.
"I know," he whispers back, and for a moment, it's like she never leaves.