There is a knot in his throat too. Impassable and debilitating, stealing his breath in the quiet. He doesn't know what he expects, not from her, not from when she's from, not when he lacks the advantage of being known by her, but it's still a release when she does react: not with disgust and rejection, but with something else. Something touched and uncertain; something that soothes the terror and tension in him.

He breathes again and glances away, his fingers trembling as he reaches to touch the top of the armchair nearest to him. Perhaps he needs the solidity of it beneath his fingers; perhaps he must do something with them. When he looks back at her, there's a lightness that wasn't there before, a shadow of the playfulness she had met before she knew who he was. "Well, aside from unlikeable and annoying... and perfect..." She did say that, once. He remembers, just as he remembers her goodbye, honest and rough and tender. He stops, lashes fluttering.

The lilting humor in his voice dies; the smile in his eyes does as well. The affection lingers. "You did call me a friend. Once."