The closest he's come to someone else in as many months as he's known her is walking her up and down the stairs, cleaning her skin, plucking up and swiping back stuck strands of oily hair. Warmth and motion buffet him, unadulterated. Hap's heart gallops in shame and starvation. He's appalled by his behavior before she puts it to words, for once the more eloquent of the two of them. The guilt spirals — up.

"I don't—" He presses in, caging her. His temple rubs against hers. All he wants is for her to stop squirming. He holds, locked against her. He can feel his breath crashing off her skin, and hers pushing her fists into his chest. "I don't."