There are things he knows he deserves: countless comeuppances that have yet to occur. And in this, there are things he does not: namely, this forgiveness. Her. But he knows enough to know exactly how she feels about him saying as much, and how much she disagrees with the sentiment, no matter how true it feels (and how truer it becomes).

And yet, every time, he leans into that touch he shouldn't have, taking comfort in the proximity. "You know I do," he says insistently. Because he does trust her, implicitly and in all the ways he can no longer trust himself. He wants to believe this is so, that his attempts to help matter, that any attempt to change what is supposedly to come might actually work.

He inhales heavily and stays burrowed in her shoulder. "Do you think we can actually change it? What's to come?"