"Are you, Max?" she asked softly, when he had run down.
"I don't know. I don't—Fran!" He fell against her, and felt her arms reach out for him, hold him as he collapsed at her side.
The touch did what words had failed to do; he felt the rigid, frozen fright flow out of her as she held him; hard, clasping his spent body in her arms. With a sigh, she drew his head against the softness of her breast and let him lie there.
This was the best way. It had come to him without words; perhaps there were no words. But what had he done to Fran, to this shy girl who held him now so tightly? He sensed, through the tension of her terror and its release, that she loved him—did he love her? When he had asked himself that, he could not answer—yet now, in his response to her, he sensed his own answer.
Words, more words—what did they mean? Reasoning was a barrier, not a path. He had always felt most apart from her when he had tried to think out their relationship into words. Better to let the words go, better to react.
They lay together unmoving on the sofa for a moment which was, for them, timeless—perhaps fifteen minutes, perhaps two or three hours. They exchanged no words, no gestures, not even a kiss. They simply were, sharing a moment of that meshed, tangible silence in which there was no Max, no Fran; instead a gestalt, a separate emotional entity.
"Tell me about it," she said finally.
It was like surfacing after a deep dive. He blinked. "I don't know what happened."
"How did it begin?"