Though he seemed afraid to touch for fear that she'd push him away, he also pressed into her as if to keep her still and steady and right there for him. Leave... she couldn't ever leave.
But as the moments ticked on, the fever passed and settled again into something kinder, something far more recognizable. At last, he lifted his head, but only to set his forehead against hers. His hands had returned to the riotous curls he dearly loved, and his fingers carded through the messy pony tail she wore now.
"You've been practicing," he said, warmth and pride rumbling in his sandpaper-silk voice. "How do you find the music?"
He knew full well how she found it, but the artist in him was easing up to the surface again. The conversation, as of yet, remained on safe subjects, and he was beginning to find more solid ground again.