When Ronan reaches out to Kylo, he's almost certain his hand will slip right through him. That there isn't a hand at all. That Ronan Lynch is a thought in Kylo's head and never had any limbs to call his own.

But his fingers curl around Kylo's bicep, grasping it. Ronan heaves a sigh of relief at the solid contact and hisses eloquently, "Jesus, fuck."

There's more to that thought. He'll have to find words to apply to it later. That strange existential slipping hasn't left him yet and his mind is working at full capacity just to hold onto the sense of himself.