He can feel his stomach twist at that admission, his chest tighten with something that might be fear and might be hope and is terrified either way. But he asked her, didn't he, to be honest. He can feel that she's nervous; even if she's not projecting it he's lying close enough to feel her tense.

He wants to say she's wrong, he wants to ask her why, tell her he's a disaster, he wants to run a little, but if he's learned anything it's that love isn't something controllable and it's not fair of him to try. And there's a very real part of him that doesn't want to. He can't tell which instinct is more rational: running or never wanting to move again.

He lets out the breath he didn't realize he was holding and leans his head in against hers, like it can keep them both safe. Don't he signs wryly, I like you too much.