He knows she wouldn't actually stab him in the hand, probably. He knows what hyperbole is. Knows, too, that threats of violence are one of the myriad ways people say they care about another person. It's a love language, perhaps one of the very few Sara in particular feels comfortable with. He understands all of this.

But it rings just now against raw nerve and all he can do is brace under it. He thinks about the lines of his baseline script - a blood black nothingness began to spin, blood black, blood - and wonders what it means that he has a point of reference for so much of it now.

For all of that, he answers promptly: "I don't want you to go." His voice is still low, still rough, but clear for all of that. He has no idea why she'd want to be here if everything he chooses to do confuses and hurts her, if it feels like throwing her efforts back in her face to her, but he doesn't want her to go if the choice is really his.

"You don't have anything to apologize for," he adds, but hesitantly, not because he doesn't mean it but because he has no idea if it will make her angry again.