[ There's a breath of exasperation--he's waiting, but Aerith offers that bulb up like he should take it, and with a shake of his head, he makes a show of holding up the dirt with one palm so that he can reach to take the bulb with his other hand. Their fingers touch, a brush of dirty nails to dirty leather; embarrassed, he pulls the bulb quickly, nestling it down firmly into the hole he's made before he starts to cover it up. His hands work careful, long strides over the shape of it; in some ways, it feels like tucking someone into bed.

The nudge to his shoulder is another touch that's unnecessary, and whatever it is that's come over him with her presence, today, it feels almost electric--he bows his chin, nodding faintly to acknowledge that he's listening to her, though really he just wants to hide his face from view. Whatever he's feeling is ridiculous: it's surely just the effect of something here. It'll go away by the time they're done.

He lets out a long, slow breath, lifting his chin to finally narrow his gaze at her, and then look back down to the dirt. He moves on to the next space. ]

Are they? Not really sure how to read them. [ Is he talking about the flowers? ] Tell me what I should be looking out for. To me, if they're so quiet, it means they're probably afraid of me.