When she doesn't reply he gives up for the now, allowing her to work and letting silence fall between them.

He tenses for a moment when her hands start to wander, but he doesn't stop her. Bullets, blades, and everything else, his body is a road map of the path he's been traveling. There are memory flashes attached to every bumpy knot of skin her fingers pass over and he's glad she cannot see them.

She sees enough, though, and when the scent of saltwater hits the air he lifts a hand to take hers, holding it in place against his skin.

"I'm sorry." For tonight. For right now. For is inability to tell her the truth or explain any of it.