His hand coasts down the short distance between his sleeve and their left hand: his grip coasts over their fingers, and there's a short thrill of horror, like a missed step when he feels that their pinky is still whole and intact.

(He thought he'd known what he was capable of. To have that preconception so thoroughly destroyed was a hard thing to reconcile. He still hasn't, yet.)

Then he shifts down and grips John's palm, giving him a brief squeeze. "Thank you, John. Truly. And- and I hope it never comes to that."