You were sure it wasn't intentional. You probably had given it far more thought than he ever had. A gloved hand to guide you past a crowd, a firm grip at your arm when you stumbled on uneven ground, the brief weight of his palm on your back when you’d done well. He didn’t speak much, didn’t need to or really want to. The touches did all the talking.

One night after patrol, when you dropped beside him to rest. He ungloved his hand and touched your neck with his knuckles. Testing for temperature.

By the shape of his eyes you could tell his eyebrows were furrowed. A soft, far to soft and thoughtful hum vibrated in his throat.

"You’re cold."