And it was a while, a good long while, before Prompto returned to the bedroom, stiff and drained and dejected. There might have been a few times, where the conversation had gotten heated and desperate enough to carry Prompto's voice back to the bedroom, but he had tried. He had tried to keep it all contained, to get all his shock and anger and pain all out of his system before going back.

So, yeah. It took a while.

And when he did return, it was only after he'd been so drained of everything else that all he could only shuffle in numbly, crawl back into bed, wrap his arms around Liz and bury his face into her shoulder as he hoarsely whispered out, "I'm so sorry..."