He doesn't want to trust her. Trust isn't something he just doles out willy-nilly. He firmly believes people should have to earn it. That takes time. Or it should, anyway. He's distantly aware that he's baffled. Baffled, because he just can't understand what's happening here. He's shocked himself, honestly and truly shocked himself. Because this isn't how he operates. This is not his m.o. He's always in control. He always keeps the upper hand. So why does he feel this sudden, overwhelming urge to tip his hand? To her. Just briefly. Just ever-so-quick. Just to see if she will. . .see it.
His need for control has a short skirmish with his curiosity. It's over almost before it begins; in the end, his curiosity always wins out.
He doesn't want to trust her, this woman who was chosen - not by him, but for him. . .against him. . .to diagnose him as broken in the head, not to be taken seriously. He doesn't want to trust her. But he just. . .can't. . .seem. . .to not.
She's just so...real? Authentic? That can't be. People don't put their true selves "out there" like this. Not in his experience, anyway. What is she playing at? He narrows his eyes and tilts his head, studying her acutely. And she, what? She lets him? Allows it? For all the world, it looks to him like she's actually inviting it. And he forgets that he doesn't want to trust her. He wants to tip his hand. Maybe more than a tip. Maybe he just wants to drop the whole bloody thing right in her lap.
For all the world, she looks like she knows that.
For all the world, he wants her to know. Everything. Every. Last. Thing.
And that. That thought, right there. That terrifies him to his very core.
He wants to trust her. He is so close. So sodding close. But he holds back. He can't do it. Can't let her in, can't let her see.
She looks at him. And she. . .lets. . .him. . .in. Lets him see. She trusts him.
And suddenly, he can.
Because she does.