[ Oh. Claude's reaction blindsides him. He expects him to approach the question sideways, maybe steer away from it altogether—the sincerity of his response is... startling.

Except that it shouldn't be. They've had plenty of heart-to-hearts before, even if they were between shoots or after work at the least pretentious coffee shop in the square and not his apartment. It shouldn't shock him that Claude is worried. Of course he cares. He blinks away his wide-eyed surprise into a look of remorse. ]

...Sorry.

[ He goes quiet for a second, staring into his tea and reflecting on what an idiot he's been tonight before setting the mug back down on the coffee table. ]

First you had to take care of me when I was ill— [ ... ] injured the other day. [ On the set of that one gothic horror series, when he'd twisted his ankle after a staged fight. ] Now you've thrown yourself into a garbage heap to stop me from getting stabbed. I've been keeping you busy.

[ There's something unfamiliar with this dynamic: a partner in crime, a peer who'd rather see him safe than victorious. A friend. He reaches over to give Claude's forearm a squeeze. ] You're very kind, Claude. I don't think I tell you often enough that I'm lucky to have met you.