Harkness walked with his notebook open in one hand, pencil scratching faintly against the page despite the uneven rhythm of his steps. He barely looked down while writing; his gaze kept flicking toward the person beside him instead, studying every shift of their shoulders, every uneven breath.

“You know,” he said after a moment, tone mild but edged with curiosity, “you have a habit of biting your lip when you’re thinking too hard. I’m not sure if it’s nerves or concentration.” He tapped the pencil against the notebook and glanced at them over the top of his glasses, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“Don’t worry—I’m not making fun. I just think it’s… telling. People are made up of these little patterns, and I like catching them before they slip away.” He angled the notebook slightly, as though he might show them the lines of cramped handwriting. “Want to see what I’ve written about you so far?”