[ It’s not the first time that she’s ever touched him—-they’ve been through so many situations and terrible moments that, in some ways, it feels like he’s touched her too much, put his hands on her in too many ways. He’s caught her from falling, yanked her out of harm’s way, pulled her up from her feet in exhaustion, let her use his arm as a ghost shield, even tried (and failed) at learning how to high five, and: somehow, despite all of that casual, friendly touching, it’s this moment here that forces a lump into his throat, his stomach twisting with the threat of strange, unreal butterflies.

His arm stays stiff, poised, bent at a good angle for her to access it, and even that slight brush of her fingertips seems to fuel thoughts that he didn’t even really want to recognize having, ever, nevermind somehow having them now. The meticulous way she folds the scarf and touches him is, truthfully, agony—-he tempers his breath, one boot tapping faintly against the ground until she finally ties the thing and secures it around his arm. Carefully, she slips two fingers in to test the tightness of the hold; he lets out a long, slow breath. ]

…Looks good to me. [ It’s said nearly breathlessly, clearing his throat as he drops his arm down to his side, glancing from the scarf to his own boots and, finally, to Aerith’s shoes. ] Are you…

I mean. Do you want me to walk you back to the room? I think I can do a couple more and finish up, here. You want to help me out before we head back?

[ Standing close to her seems to make his heart beat a little faster than he wants it to—-but absurdly, he’s also rooted in place. One gloved hand reaches up to rub at his forehead, trying to chase the thoughts out, but all it does is get a little bit of dust on his pale skin. ]

Might grow better if you talk to them while I’m planting them, or something.