Tidus retracts his hands with a quiet nod, wavering on where to put them before finding his lap for one, the edge of the seat for the other. She can think him an idiot, that’s fine; it’s easier to accept than any generosity beyond giving him somewhere to rest. Better than having her expend her energy on a situation he put himself in.

He waits for the pressure in his throat to ease, just enough so he can say:

“Thanks.”

It's a submission as much as gratitude. He won't rush off.