He blinks in bemusement at half a feast being unloaded onto his counter; sometimes he forgets, despite her name and how they met, that Greta was in fact a baker by occupation. The bread looks better than most things he's tasted since Paris, with a proper crust you could tear into: there are even fresh greens, which he doesn't always go to the trouble of getting for the house when things were well.

She turns, looking aghast, and he can almost feel his eyes start to sting when she puts her hands on his arms. He hasn't really gone to anyone for comfort, except to Edgar, and a bit to Jyn; even then, he doesn't want to ask for anything. When she tugs him into a -- surprisingly solid -- embrace, he finds himself holding on and folding down into her shoulder, for a moment letting his shoulders shake with tears that haven't made themselves known until this moment.

It's not all right; none of this is all right. It feels like a limb's been taken off. Abandoning her and the children isn't all right, either; none of who he is right now is. But it feels good to hear it like it might be someday.

After a long moment he takes a breath and looks back up, wiping embarrassedly and a little futilely at his eyes. "You'd have every right to be angry with me," he says. "Is -- come sit down. Are you all right?"