For a moment, the press of her fingers quiets. It's a small thing--a minor hesitation. A beat of consideration. And then the scuff of her fingertips resumes, rubbing small waxy circles into the rough shape of his hand until there is nothing more accomplished by continuing.

(Something in the center of her chest clenches. It's a minor sting, the treatment of that secret cut. It's not so different from rubbing a sweet salve into winter dry skin.)

Her fingertips are all oily and wax smooth. She releases his hand, rubs hers together, and then reaches for jar's lid.

"Thank you. For telling me. And it doesn't trouble me," she adds. With a soft click, the lid slides securely into place. "That it took some time for you to do it."

Wysteria looks at him then, sideways. She's a little skittish but genuine when she says, "Truly."