He flips his palm so that they’re touching, interlacing their fingers and giving her hand a gentle squeeze in gratitude. Her words send a wave of comfort his way, like she was so sure that it the outcome would be positive and he believed her somehow, some way. He could tell her anything he felt, how he felt in this moment, uncertainty swirling deep in his stomach without her judging him or telling him what he felt was wrong or that he shouldn’t feel the way he was. He realized at some point when she came to his apartment worried about him that he didn’t need to hide anything from her. True to her word, Sylvie went with Matt to the doctor’s that morning, even volunteering to drive for him and paying the tab for breakfast earlier. “Yeah, just a bit nervous I guess,” he admits in almost a whisper.

He turns to his right to find Sylvie smiling softly at him. He shifts once more until he feels a hand on top of his.

They were cold, smelled of alcohol and antiseptic, eerily quiet except for footsteps and hushed murmurs. Hospitals were generally uncomfortable places to be. He taps his foot impatiently, clenches and unclenches his hands, balling them into fists, digging his nails into his palms as if those were the only ways he could let go of all his anxious energy.

It feels like Matt was unable to physically keep still.

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