She stayed where she was. Didn't touch him. Didn't move towards him. Let him work through the feeling, process. Probably she should have been afraid . . . But so much harder to be afraid of a man depositing a glass of water on the floor nearby, who then knelt outside the door and waited for her to speak.

A flicker of something darted through her face, unnamed, and she paused in turn, her brow furrowing, pressing in an echo of his.

"I can't promise not to hurt you. I will hurt you at some point; I do that. Angry or careless or god knows what else. I tend to do that, and I'm not sure I would know how to stop if I tried. I'll bumble into things, scramble things up, take them apart, and if no one tells me no, I'll take it all down."

A breath. "So tell me when I've gone too far. I don't pretend to know where you've been. And I don't pretend to know what I'm -- either of us -- are doing. I could mess this up still."

And words as soft as the breath: "I've never wanted to hurt anyone at all."