Her hand, open-palmed and slender, works itself into the space between them. It's the first time she's reached for him— not grabbing, not wresting or fisting her fingers in his shirt to drag him forcefully from harm— in what feels like an eternity, considering the span of the last few days. Of weeks. Of months spent clawing for a foothold in the eyes of humanity. And injured, dripping thirium in inconstant patterns (her shoulder, his chest), Markus doesn't measure out the full weight of that gesture before he responds.

He fits his broad palm over hers, grip tight and earnest, stare fixed and unwavering for how open he aims to be when he recipricates her unexpected need for closeness.