That free hand moves to help Kit balance, already aware of how much sicker she looked now than she had the night before. He shifts so she can balance against his side rather than spend the energy holding herself upright, though he doesn't move his hand until she's settled.

"Yeah, it's me. Good morning," a beat, "afternoon. Took me a bit to scrape up something that could be called soup while also not being called disgusting."

He frowns, finding himself more concerned by how weak she seemed. He's had no experience with how sick she gets, no knowledge of the crow's association. Nothing. All he has is a memory of when his meister was sick, when his daughter was sick. And Kit looks just as bad as they did if not worse. Spirit presses the back of the soup-holding hand against her forehead, trying to gauge for fever, before settling completely beside her. Whether she leans against his side or leaves him supporting her as she sits up, he's clearly established that he's not going anywhere.

"You need a little something in you."