At the feeling of his hand on hers, Meg turned to face him, coming to a complete stop. She held her hand up and away from him, her gaze narrowing in accusation. They'd teetered on the edge of normal once or twice. They'd sat at a table eating breakfast. They'd slept in the same bed, figuratively speaking. They'd sat on her couch and watched an old movie. He'd kissed her, like a human man might kiss a human woman.
She was at war with herself. He'd reached out. She'd pushed him as hard as she could less than a week ago to reach out and touch her. Now he did so of his own accord, and it caused a flutter of panic to well up in her chest. She'd wanted nothing more than for him to reach out to her, to initiate contact. But this? Holding hands like teenagers, going to a fair in the middle of the afternoon...suddenly it all seemed a bit overwhelming. She felt like she was pretending, very hard, that this was normal. But, for her, it never ever would be.