[They didn't need to say they were sorry, but Isabeau gets the feeling that saying as much would just invite more unneeded friction. Instead, he simply smiles, arching an amused eyebrow when they gesture at themselves like they need to apologize for the whole Siffrin. A mutual misunderstanding isn't such a bad thing. And his heart is all the lighter for having been able to reassure them that he'll be alright.]

Don't even worry about it.

[He doesn't think that will convince them not to worry, but he'd like them to know that he doesn't want them to. His assurance is met with the soft pressure of their forehead resting against his shoulder, and any leftover anxiety is swiftly replaced by a swelling fondness, like the joy one feels when a beloved cat slowly butts their head against you. The ultimate sign of trust. He fights the urge to ruffle their hair and instead closes his eyes, relaxing to the moment.]

...My turn to ask something awkward. [Segued like a true master of social interactions. He managed to keep his tone of voice even, at least.] I really want to hug you right now, but I'm not sure what level of touch you're actually comfortable with?

[Occasional helping and handholds have been happening all day without any fuss, so he knows something must be up with the assumptions he's made about Siffrin's desire for personal space. But he lacks definition. And now would be a great time to try and fill in some blanks.]