Yes, they are all out of time. He can't delay her, and so much reconcile himself to the inevitability of the matter: she is going, and she will return in due time, hopefully having accomplished all she wished.

The minor, prompting pinches of her finger and the stern tone she's adopted do not quite put off the inevitable, senseless urge that still persists: could he keep her here on the docks, talking just a little while longer?

No.

So he cedes his grasp on her hand to do as bidden, and bow down into her. Turn his face in against her neck, secure his arms about her waist, and hold her tightly. Feel the burn of some close-held truth fluttering behind his ribs, and make no immediate attempt to quiet it, here where it cannot be read on his face or otherwise divined.