His fingertips twitch against her shoulders - a flinch, really - and he pulls his hands away, settling them on his thighs.

It hurts.

He won't say it (he doesn't have to) but it hurts, stings deep into a place in his heart that only she can reach - good or bad - and he can't help but feel it.

"My hands ain't burnt," he murmurs, as he resists the urge to lean his forehead against the back of her shoulder. He's wanted to hold her again for ten years and he can't even touch her.