Martin startles at the touch. H is hands are cold and rigid between Brocade’s, who's warmth is simple, human and undeniable. It anchors Martin in the present in a way that the memory alone could not. He listens with raw, flinching attention, his breath catching a t the mention of the bottle . Martin's jaw tightens and then his shoulders sag. “I… yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, I know.” Martin nods once and then again, firmer the second time. A resolve that will hurt and, therefore, last settles in his posture . When Brocade releases Martin's hands, he lets them fall to the desk, palms down. “Thank you,” he says hoarsely, not looking up, “for… not yelling.” The shadows welcome Brocade back like old friends. The Light-Shy contract folds around him with practiced intimacy, softening his outline and thinning him into absence. The office doesn't notice his departure, only that the room feels less crowded with denial than it did a moment ago. As Brocade eases into the corridor beyond, the hum of the building sounds awake . Down the hall, perched atop a filing cabinet that should not provide such a clean line of sight, waits the cat with golden eyes that regard Brocade steadily. It gives a slow blink and nothing more.
