She was fighting him, and he held on to her arm like the edge of a lifeboat in a tumultuous sea. If she would just stop for a second, if she could just be still, he could have gotten through this. It would have given him a second to breath, and he knew as soon as he breathed he'd be able to push this thing that had bubbled up within him back down to wherever it had come from. Just stop, Jo, just stop. If she could just give him half a second to take a breath and to think then maybe he'd know how to get through to the other side of this without doing something they'd both regret. As it was now, it felt like he only had two options. He could take the plunge and give in to that impulse and then see where it left them, when they both came up for air again... or he could let her go. But there had to be another option, something he couldn't see because she was yelling at him and tugging her arm away and his head was spinning too hard to actually think about this logically. Just stop, Jo, please.

She wasn't going to stop. His gaze slid from her eyes to her mouth, briefly, then back to her eyes again.

Alfred let out the breath he'd been holding. He let go of her arm. The impulse passed. It was replaced with a wave of relief, and then by immediate, stomach-curdling guilt — at the impulse and at the train of thought that had followed, but also about feeling relieved now. She was going to leave and he was going to lose her and that was the end of everything, and he shouldn't have felt relieved no matter what was going on in his head.

"Nothing," he said. His voice was soft and sad and he was already looking away from her. In another split second he was walking away from her, too. He didn't think he could be in the same room as her, even if she was only going to be here another minute before she left, so he walked towards the hallway that lead to his bedroom.

"Be safe," he called back, without turning to look.