He doesn't know – doesn't know what goes on in that beautiful mind of his, doesn't know a damn thing about what's been put through a formerly coherent string of thought that mangles it beyond repair, turns his dreams into nightmares. ( He hasn't spoken about it, and he gets the feeling that he won't, either, until he has no choice but to open up about it. And he can only wait, really, because he knows better than to pry when, eventually, he'll be made the wiser. )

"Hey, you." His tone is soft, soothing – or at least, he hopes it is. He brings his hands away when York jerks back, not wanting to startle him further, one resting lightly against his chest and the other at his own side. North will never be invasive, but when it comes to someone he cares about, he can't help but to want to do every single thing in his power to help. To fix him.

He swallows around the presence of his heart in the back of his throat, a reaction of apprehension and almost-anxiety when the other man has nights like this. Tilting his head to the side, he tries for a small, tentative smile.

"Rough night?"