She has to trot to keep up pace with him, this was harder when she was winged and three feet off the ground at all times. Hard - hard because the touches, whether it is his hand or the the brush of other people - she flinches, crawls out of herself for the effort. It's. Too much. So much. More than she's ever had and - it isn't fair or right:

But when she has to follow rather than be pushed, she miss a beat in tucking herself as close behind him as she can. Terrified that she'll lose this person that is being kind enough to help - well maybe just himself, but her just as much. The second she thinks she might lose him, her hand grabs his wrist, willing down the too fast breathes against the well of panic. Don't go, please don't go.