The thanks are definitely unwarranted. Rinzler settles on the edge of the flat shelf, leaving a couple handspans of space between. There's a distinctive awkwardness to the way his frame draws in, shoulders close, mask raised just enough to watch for approach or interference. Rinzler knows how to follow at command, to observe or wait or hold position. But relaxing? Not really.

The slight shift of Yori's hand draws a dip of the helmet, but for all that Rinzler doesn't pull away, he won't reach out, either. It wouldn't be fair. She should know this, but he hasn't told her, and even with the opportunity, Rinzler doesn't know how. The enforcer's stare flicks back up to her face, searching for any chance of comprehension... only to stall, sound quieting.

Yori is so very beautiful.

To look at. To feel, a bright singing warmth in his periphery. He isn't right, he doesn't match, he should never have come this close—but he wants to freeze the moment and keep looping. To never let go.

He wants to break it to a thousand pieces. To run, to shove her back. To make her see. Because it won't last. It can't. Because pretending hurts. She's breaking him apart already.

Fingers curl around nothing at his side before he reaches for the communicator. New as it might be, the prompt is familiar enough, and the text display calls up in seconds, hovering in front. Rinzler's hands hover over the projected keys, stalling for long moments as his noise rattles louder, useless and incomprehensible.

He doesn't know what to say.