Majima leans in, propping up her weight as he listens to her story, minutely aware of the effect the telling has on her breath, her heartbeat.

If he's aware of any distinct parallels to his own experience, it only registers in some muted, subconscious empathy for misplaced faith and the sting of betrayal. He captures one of her hands and pulls it away from its nervous activity to clasp it in one of his.

"Thanks for lettin' us know. Shit's hard to talk about," he mumbles into her shoulder, feeling like his words are feeble consolation.