Re: Diner: Seven & Marta
If she'd asked, he would have gladly told her that he didn't need space. Hadn't needed it any more than he'd needed a hole in his head. But that was the nature of sickness, wasn't it? It kept us from knowing that which was right in front of our eyes, sometimes. Seven smiled, though it was a little thin, a little tense, when she curled her fingers against the meat of his palm. His intention wasn't to withhold.
"I know," he said, trying for reassurance. The gravel of his voice just warmth and weight. Observation told him that he should probably let her go, release the slender silk of her hand from his -- but instinct made him squeeze, instead. "I'm here, yeah? I'm not going anywhere. Even if you freak out, okay?"
The edge of his thumbnail caught in the grooves of her wrist as all the petals of her anxiety opened up in full view, and Seven thought he knew what that was like.