[ Adra shuts his eyes, exhaling slowly. Gil's fingers are warm; soft; welcome. He leans into the touch, and h realizes that he's not afraid, not even a little. Is it just because he's so worn out from the dungeon? No; fear never has trouble finding him, no matter how tired he is. ]

That's clear to me, Gil.

[ Though Adra cannot read minds (and so knows little of Gil's true feelings about him, whatever they might be), he is observant of actual behavior. He's noticed, for example, that Gil goes quickly from 'zero' to 'handsy' with basically everyone. It doesn't bother Adra: it's just another way in which Gil reminds him of certain people back in Silvermoon.

But this particular explanation is new, and reads as genuine.

He swallows thickly. Most things are easy for him to talk about. He'll go on about ideology all day. Philosophy, no problem. Politics, morality, so on. But about himself, about his own thorny emotions--that's a bigger ask. ]

I don't ... I don't inherently dislike being touched. It wasn't like this when I was a child. I used to--climb over everybody.

[ He looks away, laughs a little, embarrassed. ]

Which meant couriers, mostly, since we didn't live in the city proper.