The low razor burr of expectation, that soft, toothache catch of fear is physical, this close, so near--the hitching together of final restrictive clauses before the commit.

...He's trembling, or they both are, weighed down with impending favor.

“Stay,” is the form it takes, strangely ragged for the size, and not loud. “As long as you're yourself, you're mine.”

He shuts his eyes, not requiring or trusting them, not any more than his voice.

“Promise or don't,” soft, bitter as intent crystallizes under his nails, “but don't lie.”

He must just be tired.