[There is no manner in which he might word this. Something elusive and intangible. Something he had understood in what manners he could. Something he had never particularly thought on. Something - and it settles uncomfortably at the bottom of his stomach. Knotted up and tangled there. Unable to be followed or unwoven. Knowing to accept the fact he had never been permitted room to worry nor wonder about this mode of expression - knowing he had never come to think he would experience any particular closeness to begin with - and his expression is shifting into something less distant. More unreadable. Not wincing away from her glare. Not breaking eye contact. Just feeling the steady weight of her hand. The way it follows his breath. Wondering if she could feel the fainter rhythm of his heart. Knowing to have expressed this much - to have revealed this much - she had made herself vulnerable. Something she hates. Had hated. Had always hated. And he knows how much this takes her, to await some kind of answer. And he's flexing his fingers against the door.
He knows this gesture is important. He knows - and it's taking him a moment, before he's (almost tentatively) lifts a hand. Lets it linger.]
no subject
He knows this gesture is important. He knows - and it's taking him a moment, before he's (almost tentatively) lifts a hand. Lets it linger.]