[ That squeezes pushes a tiny stuttering noise out of Klaasje, something just shy of relieved or hurt, a balm pressed over a wound. She wants to squirm away from the feeling as much as she wants to lean into it. She is feverously aware of how exposed they are, of how exposed she is, skin peeled back over tender flesh.

She squeezes back, and for reasons beyond even the chorus of noise in her head, that's it. Klaasje laughs, thin and papery, and leans in to dig her head against Ruby's shoulder like seeking shelter from the heat. ]

There's more to it than housing blocks and ugly saltwater?

[ If she could hide the quaver in her meaningless question, she doesn't. She's well aware of how little she's seen, and she should be nice about it - but she's not nice, she's never been nice.

And Ruby wants to show her things anyway. ]

I want to see it. I want to see everything you love about it. I want - I want to know things about you, for real.