"Being scared" is an instinct, and it's probably the only reason the human species survived as long as it has. It's hardwired into our brains right alongside eating when we're hungry and taking a breath when our lungs demand it.

( inside the shop, but it's got an open entrance and no doors to swing closed behind them, so the herding continues until they're maybe midway into the sea of tables and chairs. seeing the conveyer belt full of plates still strikes as odd after a month of virtually nothing working as it should, but that's not clarke's main focus right now. she talks as they walk, it borders on medical textbook word vomit with a gigantic side helping of self-aware lived experience. )

Something comes flying at your face, you flinch so it doesn't take out your eyes. You don't like being tickled because it feels like something crawling on you, and you don't know if it's venomous or not. The hair raises on the back of your neck and you look around, because you don't like the idea of something seeing you that you can't also see. Someone comes at you like they want to fight, and you hit first.

All of that to say — ( and finally at a table, she rounds on him more completely. clarke's too fraught to be quite as gentle and charismatic as she'd managed during knife club, but the shreds of that same person are there. she's trying, she's purposefully making eye contact and pitching her voice into something smoother, calmer, and kinder. coaxing and welcoming at the same time, very obviously ready to listen and give him her full, undivided attention. )

— I meant it. It's a good thing. What are you scared of Vance, and how can I help?