Martin takes an unsteady breath when Jon touches down the side of his face. He tilts his head subtly to the side, yielding to the feeling, if only because it's the first time he's felt even slightly grounded since the moment he ended Elias.

Right. Elias was dead. Fuck. Fuck.

"Why are you sorry?" He asks belatedly, as if he's just now parsing what Jon is saying, and he reaches up to take Jon's wrist in his hand. Gently, carefully, like he's trying to make sure that Jon doesn't recoil from him, doesn't flinch away from the murderer in the room. "You don't have anything to be sorry for. Nothing, okay?"