[His gaze moves to their hands as her touch lingers, even if only for a few moments, and he feels himself in danger of dwelling on the meaning of such a thing for far longer than is prudent. He's quick to collect himself, curling his own fingers around the scarf, carefully taking it in both hands as she turns her back to him.

It's never been like this before, has it? Even during the time where they have had the chance to begin rebuilding their friendship, it is not often that he is able to do something for her— outside of combat, his skills are severely lacking, his efforts to improve them slow but steady, and she easily outclasses him in every one. This itself may be a small thing, but it is still a reversal, of sorts.]

You give me too much credit, perhaps.

[There's a note of amusement behind his words, of warmth.]

I have never done much with my own, either. It is hardly a failing on your part— it had no need of improvement.

[There is a compliment buried there, awkward as it is, but his words are followed by an awkward pause as he considers whether or not he ought to correct himself or clarify. Deciding he wouldn't even know how, he collects himself once more and softly clears his throat, beginning to gently gather her hair between his hands, steady and careful.]