"Sure, Errol" she agreed, and though she didn't realize it, her tone had changed to the same one she'd used long ago when taming a great wild stallion. She hadn't missed how his hand shook, how his eyes closed at the remembrance of what he wasn't saying.
There was a half-emptied cardboard box between them. With a slow, firm hand, Beauty pushed it to the side, closer to the bookshelf where she'd recently leaned. They were both too close to the bookshelf for her to put herself in front of him directly, so she slid to his side instead and tucked her knees back under her again. His smile had done nothing close to reassuring her. If anything, she felt guilty for making him hurt -- and he was hurting.
Since the beginning, since he first flinched away, Beauty had avoided touching Errol except when he'd allowed it. But now, with that sickness on his face, she couldn't imagine withholding the comfort of touch. She hoped, hoped fervently, that he would learn it soon. And so, with a very slow and careful hand, she reached up to smooth back his hair. Didn't realize she was holding her breath.