[He draws himself up but stands his ground, meeting the threat without flinching, chin lifting to accommodate for November's height advantage over him. He refuses to be intimidated away from this. He feels untethered, scattered, reckless, and his eyes scour for something, anything in that expression like what he'd seen a few moments before. What he'd been so sure he'd seen.

But— nothing. Just like that: there and gone.

His jaw clenches; he swallows hard. Gooseflesh pricks at his arms, a side-effect of either the sudden, unnatural chill, or sudden old memories of empty expressions. It's hard for him to say which.]

I could have been like you. [If things had gone differently, if he hadn't been so lucky, so often in the wrong place at the right time. His voice is harsh, resigned.] I know what it means. I know what it costs, even if you can't see it anymore.

Maybe I understand you better than you think.