“It’s human.” Weak in that specific way.

His eyeline shifts from his hand to hers, and lingers there a beat. His hands are similarly unoccupied, now, save for the hide, which he covers with his shard-bitten palm. The cards are gone, the pipe is gone. He stays himself for just a moment, shy of standing.

There’s something there in the level of his brows, knocking at the door of scandal with just enough clearance for plausible deniability. Do you want to --

It’s brief. He stands, and pulls the folded hide up with him, self-control, propriety, etc snared up loose under his arms to move him. He scoots his chair in under the table. Neat.

“You’re sure you’re willing to part with these letters?”