She looks at his hand, still simmering with indignation. I'd find it hard to be casual.

"I don't know what we are," she says, the same air of cool diffidence returning. Perhaps he recognises it for the truth it hides, the way she uses it to shield herself from other wounds, these more deep and slower to heal than anything that could happen to her physical body.

Eventually, she does lay her fingers across his, just a light touch. Her eyes fall to where they're touching, and her voice is soft, tinged with sorrow.

"I won't be caged again. Not for you or any man."

If that's what he wants from her, then they will both be disappointed.