Jon crashes right into him, and it's awkward, it's desperate, all elbows and frantic hands— Martin nearly knocks the breath out of him, and Jon clings back just as tightly. He knots his fingers into the thin, wet gauze of Martin's robe and doesn't care how unfamiliar it feels, not so long as he can feel the steady warm span of Martin's back beneath it. He tucks himself in close and for a moment, blind and gasping with relief, everything feels right.

He pulls himself away just enough to look Martin in the face, throat working as he tries to catch up. His grip loosens just a little, and he looks behind him, to the smoky owl which now perches still and silent in the air.

"Martin— it's— ignore it. It, it doesn't matter."

He presses closer again, his voice hitching.

"I'm fine. I'm really— you're alright?"