"Oh," she says on an exhale, because he is hot and solid and real, and Merlin it is nice. His fingers curl around her upper arm, his arm bracing along her back as it shudders with sobs, and if she lets her head rest – she does – then it tucks neatly beneath his jaw, her cheek pressed to his chest just below the faint jut of his collarbone. She can feel the rise and fall of his breaths rasping in and out, up and down. She can feel the pump of his heart; all that blood, ever-moving, never stopping. Lub-dub. Her hands stay curled back in her lap and she doesn't touch him, and she cries with pathetic wretchedness until her nose is running snot over her lip and she feels sick to her stomach.