There's really only one thing he can say to that. What Harold is offering is impossible. John isn't sure he could survive having Harold this close for so long. Having Harold's hand on his leg. He's already bursting from just this little.

Instead John finds something to count. He settles on the small dining table. He lets himself trace the shape of the legs, the chairs pushed up, going over the corners and counting them, thinking of the angles and lines. It's an easy trick he trained himself to do a long time ago. When he checks in again his breathing is back to normal and he's sure he can speak in his usual calm, sure tone.

"I'm fine, Finch."