"It's not that I felt I couldn't tell you," Ratchet says, the corners of his mouth crimped. "I just didn't know how to tell you and be sure nobody but you heard."

Some of the habitual tightness in his shoulders is unwinding slowly, though, and he looks down at their twined fingers again, tension draining from his face to just leave him looking tired.

"Thank you," he says quietly down at their hands, his thumb smoothing over the back of York's palm.