Tidus doesn't have time to properly process the look behind the mask—he's thrown, yanked, and no part of him knows how to respond to any of it. The hand that had been on Nida's shoulder lands somewhere under it on his chest, and heat flairs in Tidus like competition.

But then Nida responds so coolly, that it extinguishes it as a flame between fingers. He takes a quiet breath, not sure if to continue dancing or to fix his hand. Nida can decide that.

"Sorry."

He means it.