She's careful where her hand is, not to clamp down too tightly, not to keep pressing against any raised or too-warm skin where her fingers touch; she hasn't forgotten that he came to her with the residual marks of the ways he still fights himself, that he came asking for respite.

But she's also aware of how they first touched, how careful and telegraphed and tenuous it was, how either of them might have burst into violence at a single wrong or too quick move; how they couldn't take their eyes off each other, not because of the mutual attraction running base and low between them. And now this is becoming less and less rare, though no less precious for all of that.

It's this thought that finally eases the tightness in her chest, or at least the dangerous edges of it. That lets her nudge her head against his, just a bit, lets her press a slow, warm kiss to his jaw. No expectation in it, just wordless gratitude, and a unutterably intimate affection.