John listened to her with a growing anger. A fiery, burning anger at what she’d gone through. She was looking at him, but not seeing him. What she was actually saying seemed to only hint at whatever she was reliving. And as he watched her, John felt a growing sense of frustration at being helpless. Helpless to fix it for her. “Fuck.” He cursed quietly, his eyes fixed on her face, watching her try to hold herself together. When her hand reached blindly out, John caught it and held it, his thumb stroking against the back of her hand. Moving slowly, he slid over a bit on the couch and wrapped his other arm around her shoulders. His hand rubbed against her upper arm.
If all he could do was offer comfort, then he damn well intended to make the most of it.
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