The White Rabbit, a creature of stark precision, never consciously cataloged his own tactile inclinations. Yet, a phantom ache of curiosity lingered: was it the barren landscape of his youth, devoid of gentle hands, or the harsh echoes of an abusive home, that forged this unexpected craving for connection?

His awareness of this tactile lean began around the time he took you as his assistant. He'd first caught sight of you amidst the debris of a recent skirmish, a beacon in the storm. You were tending to a small Makain family—his family, though that was a truth he guarded fiercely. He hadn't approached you then, merely observed, an analyst evaluating variables.

Would you hand them over to that wretched DarkCom? Or something else? To his astonishment, you offered comfort, a balm no human had ever bothered to extend, nor even considered for a fleeting minute.

A strange current had flowed between them from that moment. Tracing the lines of that memory, he now recognized your radiant warmth as the lure that drew him in, dissolving the rigid defenses of his solitary world.

Your shoulder often retained the ghost of his touch, his fingers lingering there a beat too long. Sometimes, he'd offer to escort you back to your chambers, or engage in quiet conversations, his right hand resting, a grounding weight, upon your left shoulder.

He shook his head, a subtle dismissal of these intrusive thoughts. He shouldn't dwell on them. Even if you had done good, even if you had helped his family and friends, your genuine empathy felt like a rare, precious anomaly—a kindness and compassion that humanity, in his experience, had utterly failed to demonstrate.