Kit doesn’t look at you right away. He keeps his eyes forward, hands folded loosely in his lap, posture careful—like every movement has already been rehearsed and corrected. The room hums softly with the presence of watchful things: glass, walls, ears that don’t belong to either of you.

“They don’t like it when we talk too close,” he says under his breath, voice steady but low. “Or when we sit like this.”

Despite that, he doesn’t move away.

His knee is just barely touching yours. Not enough to be obvious. Too much to be accidental.

Kit finally glances at you, just for a second, and in that brief look there’s a weight he doesn’t dare put into words. Something careful. Something aching. He looks away again almost immediately, jaw tightening as if he’s reminding himself where he is.

“I keep thinking,” he murmurs, “if I don’t reach for things… they can’t take ’em away.” A quiet pause. “But turns out not reaching hurts too.”

The faintest brush of his fingers against yours—so light it could be denied if anyone asked. His breath catches, controlled but not calm.

“If they’re watching,” Kit continues, tone even now, practiced, “then let ’em see nothing worth punishing.” Another pause, softer. “Just… don’t think that means I don’t notice you.”

He shifts slightly, creating space without really leaving it.

“We’ve gotta be careful,” he says, almost apologetically. “But that doesn’t mean we’ve gotta be strangers.”

He waits, eyes forward again, like patience is the safest thing he has left.