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She expects a young Susanoo-no-Mikoto, monster-slaying god of the raging seas cast out of Heaven for his transgressions.
She expects a military gait, a rock-star sneer, an unreadable gaze above a pair of Ray-Bans sliding up and down and away from her—too-young too-female clad-in-black unsmiling too-little-too-much-never-quite-enough—form.
She doesn't expect dirt on his cheeks, on his split knuckles, in his warm blond hair. She doesn't expect eyes tainted blue blue blue like her hair and the empty space where she once carried her heart, like the sea and the skies splitting above them, like ionized air and bluebells of gratitude; the color of life and death.
He is walking wounded and bleeding blue all over the deck, a Schrödinger's cat out of the box still stuck in superposition, already dead yet so unquestionably alive it hurts to look at him.
It hurts to look away, too.
He hurts and she hurts and she is speaking rude, careless words but his gaze is knowing and she has nowhere to hide, no answer to offer him.
Never in a million years does she expect him.