Marco lets out a shaky breath at Fiddleford's touch. It's grounding, as usual, and therefore appreciated.

"I know that. You wouldn't do something like this without thinking." His smile evens out, although it still betrays his exhaustion. "I trust you. I trust you."

But he's reassuring Fiddleford just as much as he's reminding himself. Does that count for something, making an effort to stamp down his awful, persistent paranoia? He wants to think it does, but he can't allow himself to.