[ ah.

it's not like this is unfamiliar. to have someone approach him, heart in hand, offering a kiss or some sweet words. sometimes yves can tell when it's coming, and sometimes he can't. the whimsies of infatuation and affection strike fast. (he should've noticed this one though, just acknowledging that yves is the idiot in this case.) though normally these advances come in a cloud of perfume or under the haze of alcohol, only the latter is present here underneath the stars.

the affection ends just as quickly as it's initiated, and his heart does stutter a moment. a million emotions hit him at once. the traitorous stutter of hope. the ice cold flash of fear. uncertainty. surprise. worry. ]

... Siff...

[ tentatively, at first, like he's not sure how to respond—but he reaches out then to catch onto their hand and gives it a squeeze. just as certain. the affection that he holds for them doesn't waver. ]

... Thank you. For telling me. [ for letting him feel loved and cared for, for even a moment ] I treasure you so dearly.

[ . . . ]

I'm not sure if I'm ready to accept what you're offering me, and you deserve a better answer than that.