Meredith's never been physically masochistic, but there's something to be said for how aware she is of her breathing and where his arm falls across faded bruises, how much richer everything else feels in counterpoint to this and all the lost time. It's like an echo of that clarity she once possessed, even if he leaves her a little dazed, moving with him as she drops her head back against his shoulder again, looking hazily back. Her hand finds his and draws it higher, her heart racing and erratic. At least she's still here, at least he is, inextricably intertwined; she can take everything else in exchange for that.