"You're tense," he says, like it wasn't obvious, like it adds something to the conversation: truly, he has no idea what to say now. Because this isn't soothing her hurts, this isn't ointment on a bruise, this isn't cradling her when she's crying.

She's half-naked and leaning into his touch, and he's rubbing her neck like they're lovers instead of friends. He doesn't even know if she wants anything like what he sometimes imagines, like he has the start of. He doesn't know if she's interested in that at all, if she's ready for it, and even if she were he doesn't know if she'd pick him to try.

But he can't stop, either. She's leaning into him so sweetly, and he feels like he's helping, and he really does like her.