“Okay.” Wolfgang bites their lip, struggles to sit up, in the process taking their hands off him. Their hair is tangled, clothes dusty and rumpled. “Okay.” It's cold on the moon and they're starting to feel it; the field they made them keeps the worst of it out, but it was designed for life support, not comfort. “You can tell me. Um. If it's not okay. I mean. If it was.”
It's so unfair that they still feel so awkward 384,400 kilometers away from any other living being.