Rosita doesn't have anymore conversation in her, either; if their positions were reversed, she wouldn't believe herself either. She wouldn't believe anything could be okay on a long enough timeline. She, in fact, doesn't.

But he takes his gloves off, and he takes her hands, and it's what she has to offer: skin to skin contact, warm and living, present. She lets him hold onto her, her fingertips resting lightly on the backs of his hands where they curl over. And when he closes his eyes, she leans forward - she pulls him forward, not insistently, but encouragingly - to set her head against his.

He can lean on her for a while. He can take what he needs, even if it's just air in and out of his lungs.