Connor really couldn't comprehend this.
Whenever he was around Lieutenant Anderson, he felt like he was viewing the world through a thin haze. His speech came out breathy, and his movements felt clumsy and distracted.
Of course, as a deviant in the wake of the world changing, he had expected change. But this particular change was a hindrance.
The weirdest part was that it felt *right*. He *liked it*???
So he now had an oxymoronic situation wherein he knew it would be in his best interest to eradicate this error from his software, but... But he didn't want to.
He sat next to Hank as they watched an apparently especially invigorating sports match, and as the team he was rooting for scored he threw his arms in the air, only to find that when they slumped again one landed atop Connor's own folded hand.
He had frozen, ice blue eyes widening as he had turned to awkwardly look at their now touching hands, before yanking his away and breaking contact.
Connor barely even registered this, as all of his attention and critical thinking had killed itself the milisecond their hands had made contact. His unnecessary breath had halted, mouth staying jarringly slightly open and his motor functions seemingly vastly restricted.
Hank had turned from him and folded his arms, clearly embarrassed, but Connor sought out that feeling akin to how a druggie might seek out their next fix, hazily shuffling over with his hands trembling to rest his head on the lieutenants shoulders.
His partner's breath hitches, and for a moment he worried he had screwed up, but the grey haired man soon relaxed and threaded his fingers through his hair idly.
"Dork" he mumbled fondly, and Connor swore his heart flew.