It's been a long time since he was in this particular situation, long enough that it feels slightly overwhelming. His mouth has gone dry, his heart is pounding. He's spent the intervening time pacing restlessly, casting aside his velvet coat and putting it back on three times, utterly failing to focus on his guitar or his equations or his sketches.

Hearing Bashir call out is a desperate relief, but he doesn't allow himself to hurry; he walks, silent and steady, until he in sight. Then he stops and clasps his hands behind his back. He can control his posture, but he can only imagine how his expression looks - yearning, anxious, excited, guilty, all of the above?

"Sir."