[ There's another glance of his hand, fingers through dirt, before he directs his attention to the next bulb--the hole for it feels a little shallow, and though he's been given tools to work with, there's something a little reassuring about digging his hands in, mucking up his gloves with dirt instead. He's hollowing out the space further when he hears it: a voice, warm and soft, from somewhere above him, and though he's crouched, there's still an instinctive flinch of his shoulders, a jerk of his chin as though to place the sound.

It isn't coming from the flowers, of course. With a glance, he cranes his head up to see Aerith there, looking particularly pleased with herself; she's likely happy to see him covered in dirt, tending to the flowers like he never would have back home. The best he got up to then had been picking bunches for the orphanage--embarrassed, now, he immediately draws his hands back to his thighs, shaking his head a little. ]

Don't think they're very shy. [ With a nod of his chin towards the row he's planted--somewhat clumsily--that moves inward towards the field. ] Pretty sure they all touched me plenty when I was planting them.

[ He gives a soft grunt, pushing himself onto his feet so that he can at least dust his hands off--it also gives him the excuse to look anywhere but at Aerith, for a moment, gathering his wits about him to look a little more nonplussed. When he does lift his gaze, it catches on the scarf around her shoulders: for someone who loves all the bright colors, reds and pinks and whites, it looks incredibly drab on her, something she likely didn't pick out for herself. ]

A gift? [ He gives a short nod of his chin to the scarf, curious, as he gently claps his hands together--another plume of dirt billows off the gloves. ] I saw some of those earlier.