When he takes the mug, he twists his hand carefully to keep from touching her skin. It makes him far too aware of her. It's dangerous, an unnecessary danger. The tea isn't as hot as it could be, she must have made it just after he'd disappeared on her. He's glad now that he'd mentioned sometimes needing to do that before he'd started doing it, because it had needed doing in that moment. She'd been so open to him, hardly a layer of anything separating him from her true emotions, and between that and the unexpected hand on his shoulder...
Well. He'd been planning on fetching back one of these trees anyway.
"Sorry to fall short, in that case," he begins, and then she taps his nose, and everything he'd been lining up in his head disappears.
It most certainly isn't an aspen, it's a paper birch, probably sprung up after a wildfire swept that riverbank clean a decade or so ago, but he doesn't correct her. He isn't certain he can trust himself.
After she's disappeared into the house, he lets the tree fall with a sudden ground-shaking thud and blurs to the porch to carefully set the mug down, then blurs back to the tree and sets on it like it's an enemy. There's a perfectly good axe hanging on the side of the house, above the sparse wood pile, but he doesn't even look at it. Even if it wasn't a soft wood, he'd prefer to do it this way. He isn't sure how long it takes, but the sun is visibly angled by the time he's stacking the torn-apart firewood-sized chunks of birch along the side of the porch.
She's going to keep touching him, and he doesn't know why he isn't warning her off from it.
He turns to go back to the woods, then hesitates. Almost unwillingly, his feet take him to the door and he opens it and leans inside. "How much time would you say you need for something a little bigger than rabbits?"
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Well. He'd been planning on fetching back one of these trees anyway.
"Sorry to fall short, in that case," he begins, and then she taps his nose, and everything he'd been lining up in his head disappears.
It most certainly isn't an aspen, it's a paper birch, probably sprung up after a wildfire swept that riverbank clean a decade or so ago, but he doesn't correct her. He isn't certain he can trust himself.
After she's disappeared into the house, he lets the tree fall with a sudden ground-shaking thud and blurs to the porch to carefully set the mug down, then blurs back to the tree and sets on it like it's an enemy. There's a perfectly good axe hanging on the side of the house, above the sparse wood pile, but he doesn't even look at it. Even if it wasn't a soft wood, he'd prefer to do it this way. He isn't sure how long it takes, but the sun is visibly angled by the time he's stacking the torn-apart firewood-sized chunks of birch along the side of the porch.
She's going to keep touching him, and he doesn't know why he isn't warning her off from it.
He turns to go back to the woods, then hesitates. Almost unwillingly, his feet take him to the door and he opens it and leans inside. "How much time would you say you need for something a little bigger than rabbits?"