[ he isn't able to tone it down before it's already out there, like a half-confessed truth he'd been trying to keep swallowed for all that it's prodded and lingered in the pit of his stomach, gripping at his chest in the inopportune moments like it does right now. he'd managed to keep himself composed with clara just minutes ago, but right now, his heart pounds too hard from the burning desperation of his plea to think too clearly.

when it all does finally still, where even his breath seems to catch in his throat, it's when she says the things he doesn't expect, the things he'd rather not hear and, yet, latches onto them like he'd been so starved for it.

he watches her with a lasting silence, though his eyes scream out so much — surprise, relief, worry — everything at once like he's battling in himself how to feel over those words, undeserving of it and yet wanting to hold onto them without ever letting go.

it's the feeling he'd felt in that bar, the one that was ready to breathe her in and nothing else. ]

I didn't want you to care about me.

[ a quiet honesty that's not meant to judge her on how she might feel, silent again for a moment after before he takes a light step forward, closer to her. ]

When this started — [ he realizes as soon as he says it, the strangeness of those words. when this started. this, like what they are could be embodied in any sort of definition. ] I was only thinking of myself. I was selfish and I didn't think —

[ that anyone would care about me. that you would care about me. not like this.

he swallows, lump thick in his throat. raising his fingers, he grazes the tips light against her cheek, like he's resistant to giving in too much. ]

One of these days, I might wake up and not remember any of this. Everything we did, everything we said — just gone. I don't want the day to come where you see me looking at you any differently than the way I am now.