If he didn't know, the way she's acting would look crazy as hell. If he didn't know, he wouldn't have been able to do that, though-- to trace the unseen line of ink unerringly. She's not thinking that through-- of course she isn't, because she's not letting herself believe she could be so lucky, he thinks. It's reasonable enough. He's only half sure himself, even with the evidence mounting. It makes perfect sense-- even better, it makes the rest of everything that doesn't make sense make perfect sense.

And he should be dealing with this more gently, but with the rush of relief and the disorientation of where they are and the sudden lifting of the burden of inexplicable grief he couldn't share?

Yeah, rationality can take a hike. He laughs, warm and short and breathy, takes half a step closer. Fuck it-- at this point if he's wrong, things are muddled enough that it won't matter.

"C'mon, lemme see," he says encouragingly, a low rumble of amusement. And then-- Heaven help him if he's wrong--

"You gonna make me take my shirt off here?"