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It's not shock that she feels.
That might be sadder than anything else about this situation. The fact that she knew this would happen, knew that he would run, because he is… Keefe, after all. And he never really chooses her, in the end, does he?
He ran after blood and steel. It was fine. It was fine, she was angry, but it was fine, he just wanted things to work out. He would tell her if he was going to do something like that again.
Then it was bright eyes and shadowy silhouettes and her voice, her voice , shaky and quiet and raspy with fear and regret. It was bad. That was… that was bad. But he was doing it for the right reasons. He knew what he was doing. And he came back.
And then he promised. He told her he would talk to her about these things, because he trusted her, because he wanted her to trust him, too. He told her in that quiet tone his voice always took on when he got sincere, like a sun quelled by the somber puff of rain clouds. Because he was serious about this, not in his flimsy veneer of deflection, but because he was giving her the truth.
Was there anything sweeter than his voice in that moment? His eyes, maybe, ice blue softened to a color more reminiscent of a morning sky. The warmth of his hands as they curved against hers with a reassuring squeeze, saying I'm sorry and I care and I'll never do it again .
But it doesn't matter, really, how he made her feel the most in that moment. Despite how he made their uphill battle decline just a little more, made her breath come a little easier. Because he broke the promise, and its shattered remains are crumpled in her palm.
She knew what it said before she read it. Knew as soon as her dad gave her that look, like he was trying to apologize for something he knew was past the point of apology. Knew when she saw that simple, beautiful handwriting. Knew when she couldn't even bring herself to truly look at it, when her gaze slipped from word to word, from I'm leaving to I probably won't see you again. She knew, and that made it hurt less, in a blunt-force-trauma-numbing-your-skull kind of way.
So what does she feel, if not shock? Anger, certainly. Low, simmering, grievous contempt that keeps burning after the flames die out. Hopelessness. Because there's no progress, nothing but a vicious cycle with him. Just… aching, because she...
Well, she wouldn't go so far as to say she loves him. She thinks she used to. But she's so, so tired. Of his betrayals. Of his constant apologies and justifications that have worn away at the sparkling spools of sentiment in her heart until they were threadbare.
But still there. And that's the worst of this. She doesn't love him anymore, but she still wants him , wants him safe, wants him happy.
Wants him here , however painful that feels.