The clock ticks. Once. Twice. Three times, and she's still counting his breaths instead of her own. His thumb hasn't moved from her fingertip, but she feels the tremor traveling up through his hand—a fine vibration, barely there, like a wire strung too tight and humming.
She doesn't pull away. Neither does he.
The light stripe slides across his wrist, catching the fine hairs there, and she watches it move as if time itself is marking this moment. His pulse ticks visible in the hollow of his wrist—steady, deliberate, a counterpoint to the tremor in his hand.
"Your pulse is slow," she says. Her voice sounds strange to her own ears. Distant. Like someone else spoke.
"I'm counting."
"Counting what?"
His eyes meet hers. That blue holds. "Your breaths. Seven so far. You breathe shallow when you're thinking."
She feels the observation land somewhere in her chest. He's been counting her. The same way she's been counting him. The symmetry presses against her ribs, and she doesn't know if it's comfort or warning.
His thumb shifts—not pulling away, just adjusting. A fraction of a millimeter. The pad of his thumb presses more firmly against hers, and she feels the callus there, the ridge of old scar tissue at the base.
"Claire." His voice drops lower. "I need you to hear me."
She doesn't answer. She's watching his mouth, the way his jaw tightens between words.
"This doesn't go anywhere. Not yet. Not until I know I won't—" He stops. His thumb presses harder, almost desperate, then relaxes. "I need to be sure I can hold this."
She understands what he's not saying. The tremor in his hand. The line he named. The fear that control isn't enough.
"Okay," she says. And she leaves her fingertip pressed against his, letting the tremor travel through her skin, letting him feel her not pulling away.
She slides her other hand over his, palm to palm. The movement is slow, deliberate — her fingers finding the spaces between his, the heat of his skin seeping through her palm.
His hand is larger than hers. She feels the span of it, the weight, the calluses along the base of his fingers. His thumb still presses against her fingertip, but now her whole hand is against his, and she feels the tremor travel up her arm, settle somewhere behind her ribs.
He doesn't pull away.
She watches his face. His jaw is tight, the scar a pale line against the shadow of his beard. His eyes are on their hands, on the way her fingers curve against his knuckles, and she watches him watch them as if he's seeing something he didn't expect to find.
"Roman." She says his name quietly, testing how it feels in her mouth. His eyes rise to hers. "This isn't nothing."
His thumb shifts against hers. A minute rotation, like he's tracing a circle on her skin. "I know," he says. His voice is rough, barely audible. "That's the problem."
She doesn't answer. She lets her fingers curl around his, lets her palm press flat against his. The tremor in his hand is steadier now, as if her touch is grounding something in him. She feels his pulse against her wrist, faster than before.
"You're still here," he says. The same words from before, but now they sound different. Less a statement. More a question.
"So are you."
The clock ticks. The light stripe slides across his wrist, across the fine hairs, and she watches it move. Her hand stays against his, palm to palm, the tremor a shared thing now. Neither of them breaks the touch.
She holds his gaze. The clock ticks — one, two, three — and she feels each beat in the space between her ribs. His thumb is still pressed against hers, callus against fingertip, and the tremor in his hand has settled into something steadier, as if her touch has anchored him. The light stripe has reached the heel of his palm, thin and golden, and she watches it move across his skin while she gathers the question.
"Roman." His name comes out quiet. Not a whisper — something firmer, a line she's decided to cross. His eyes haven't left hers. "What are you afraid of losing?"
Something shifts in his face. Not the jaw tightening — that's already been tight. It's smaller. A flicker at the corner of his mouth, the way his pupils dilate just slightly. His thumb presses harder against her fingertip, then stops. The tremor returns to his hand, fine and constant, like a wire pulled taut.
"Everything," he says. The word is rough, barely audible, and she feels it land somewhere in her chest. It's not an answer. It's the shape of an answer, a door cracked open.
She doesn't look away. She lets her fingers curl a little more against his, feels the ridge of scar tissue at the base of his thumb press into her palm. "That's not specific enough."
His jaw works. He looks down at their hands — at the way her fingers are woven between his, at the way the light stripe has reached his wrist — and she watches him watch the contact as if he's trying to memorize it. When he looks back up, there's something raw in his eyes. Unshielded. Like he's forgotten to guard it.
"I'm afraid I'll pull away," he says. The words come slower now, each one dragged out. "And I'm afraid I won't."
She feels the tremor in his hand spike, then settle. He's not done.
"I'm afraid of wanting something I can't control." His voice drops lower, almost a whisper. "Of wanting you and not being able to stop."
The clock ticks. The light stripe slides past his wrist, onto the armrest, and she watches it move like a second hand marking something irreversible. Her hand stays against his, palm to palm, the tremor a shared thing now. She doesn't pull away. Neither does he.
Her thumb moves before she decides to move it. A slow slide across the crescent scar at the base of his thumb, tracing the pale ridge of tissue, feeling the way the skin changes texture under her touch. His breath catches — a sharp, audible pull of air that he doesn't try to hide.
His hand tenses. The tendons in his wrist pull tight, and for a moment she thinks he'll pull away. But he doesn't. His fingers curl slightly around hers, a reflexive grip, and she feels his pulse jump against her palm.
She keeps her thumb moving. A slow arc along the scar's curve, from one end to the other, as if she's memorizing the shape of it. The tissue is smooth and puckered, a pale line against the darker skin of his hand, and she wonders how old it is, how he got it, whether he's ever let anyone touch it before.
"Claire." His voice is rough, barely a whisper. "What are you doing?"
She doesn't look up. "Mapping you."
His thumb presses harder against her fingertip, and she feels the tremor in his hand sharpen, then steady. He's holding himself still, she realizes. Holding himself together by each breath, each beat of the clock, each millimeter of her thumb against his skin.
She slides her thumb across the scar one more time, slower now, and she feels his hand relax. The tension doesn't leave — it's still there, coiled in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw — but his hand opens slightly, letting her touch settle deeper into his palm.
"Does it hurt?" she asks.
"Not anymore." His voice is low, careful. "It's just there."
She looks up. His eyes are on her face, watching her the way she was watching him — as if he's trying to memorize the moment, the weight of her thumb against his skin, the way the light catches her hair. There's something raw in his expression, unguarded in a way she hasn't seen before.
"I'm still here," she says, and she doesn't know if it's a statement or a promise or both.
His jaw tightens. His thumb presses against hers once, hard, then relaxes. "I know," he says. "That's what scares me."