K doesn't start moving again - not really, not anymore than he tensed when he stopped. But something shifts at the corners of his eyes, something softens and saddens, and then he breathes in and tucks it safely away behind the kind of bland expression that kept him the safest back home.

"He struggles with that," K says simply. Softly. Jesus has never said as much of course, but K sees more than people want him to see. K saw the hesitation every time Jesus was feeling too much pleasure and had time to think about it; every time he tried to tell K anything important, which sometimes he overcame and sometimes he didn't.

He always knew. He'd started to trust what he was being told more than what he knew, what he saw, because after all he can't actually read minds - only the strongest emotion in the moment, and maybe, maybe -

But no. "I'm sorry."