He might maybe lean a little bit her direction when her hand moves, some part of him anticipating being pulled in. When it doesn't happen, he realizes immediately why not: she can't risk it. He can pull people into terrible memories. Into a terrible memory dimension. And neither of them really know how. It's not safe. It might not be safe to do what she's doing now.

But she's still doing it.

He finally pulls himself together enough to let go of his death grip on the couch pillow and wipe his eyes a little with that hand. There hadn't been any sobs or even hitched breath, but he definitely leaked a little. The jittery energy is gone, at least. All he feels is a familiar, heavy despair.

It's bearable, though. He's had worse. "You said... we stopped it."