*drops his hand just as quickly (too soon) and breathes through a wash of muddied emotion, hurt churning thick despite himself (he knows, he knows you've every right to be wary, but it hurts all the same)*
*shifts away in response to your body language, nodding* I hope so. *honestly* I can't promise I won't have bad days. But they're still better than my best, before. And I'm not packing them away like I used to.
*stops himself before he can get too far down that road—you don't want or need to hear the sordid details of his psyche—and adds, almost as an afterthought:* I looked at the snowglobe every day. Every single day. (*doesn't even think to mention those early dark dips when he thought of smashing the globe, just to be rid of its perfect, untouchable gleam (can't ever go back)*) I love it. Thank you.