[Kaspar's embrace pulls him in. There's a part of Steinbeck that wants to fiercely push him away, so self-loathing that a gesture like that seems anathema to his being. He doesn't deserve this. He wouldn't deserve this. Choose someone better, someone less wrapped in their own flaws and problems to the point of cracking.]

[But even as the urge comes up like bile in his throat, the hand to his head stills him, makes his eyes widen. And like instinct, he leans into it, a dying plant desperate for light. Ah, that's what it is, isn't it? Here he is, the insidious weed, hearing the lament of the moon wanting to be sun and wanting to tell him that the light that shines is still worthy, still needed.]

[The corner of his mouth quirks, a momentary smile.]

I'm sure you won't be lacking when it comes to people to find to care about. [A beat - he raises his hand up, hesitant, before brushing up in those light curls of hair at the back of his neck.] Though the opposite is true, too. I think your cup will overflow with people who will care about you.

[It feels like a hidden admission, personal - how odd, he thinks, that he could even feel that way for a practical stranger. But the circumstances are special, and his soul hangs bare, and it feels like something he can't simply ignore and move on from so easily, even if he wanted to.]