His fingers turn into her hold, gripping back gently. Holding fast to her with the consideration of his own strength. His fingers are rough and calloused, his littlest finger that had never been set after his torture, crooked on the break. Knuckles that are there now from callouses, not the crushed bones from a childhood on the streets.

"You can thank me by remembering not to call me 'sir'." A tease, as he holds her back. "I'd hate to think I was becoming one of them. We grew up much the same." He hums softly, a consideration. He doesn't speak of his childhood, of course he doesn't, the nobles liked to throw it often enough in his face that he grew up in the back streets of Karnaca. "Well, almost the same. I never much needed a shirt in the heat."