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Kamala squeezes him tight, pressing herself against him with a happy squeak — he’s okay, he’s okay, he’s okay; he’s covered in dirt and grime like all of them are but he’s okay — and she only notices Scott’s lips are pressed to her forehead like this when he reels back.
“So — so — sorry,” he breathes, his voice going several octaves higher, stiff as a board, like it wasn’t her who all but jumped on him. Suddenly, weirdly, inexplicably, Kamala’s heart is racing.