She doesn't need to see his face to know the mixture of emotions that must be filtering through, the way his voice snags on the utterance of her name a clear enough signal. She worries, more than anything, that she's crossed a line she shouldn't have by saying more, expressing more than what he may be feeling on his end of things. She gently takes a hold of his hand, fingers slipping through his for a firmer grip, and squeezes, her thumb moving in a small back-and-forth swipe.

"Talk to me," she whispers, tipping her head back to look at him directly.