[o] [SE] longneck, ice cold beer never broke my heart

Iskra

BREATHE IT IN, IT'S JUST SNOW, WE'RE JUST FALLING
WE WON'T ALWAYS FREE FALL BACK TO NOTHING

Her response was like a smooth hand pressed against his cheek, instantly calming and warm with support. Though he couldn't quite interpret the words her eyes attempted to form, their kindness and confidence, layered across his name, was a balm for the parts of him that were still trying to form scars. "I know, I know..." he said with a steady exhale, but it seemed like he was still trying to convince himself. "But, if that's the fantasy women like, if those are the heroes they want, then maybe there's something to be learned there, don't ya think?" Not the smut part of it, per say, although given Iskra hadn't so much as kissed a girl that could certainly prove instructional as well. He just thought, maybe there were mannerisms the men had that he could attempt to adopt. A smolder or two to trial and and see if it garnered the same response as on the paper. Many things could be learned, had to be. Maybe smut was the textbook for wooing women, and he it's capable student.

He smiled, finding humor in himself as he glanced down at his hands that had begun to fidget. He quieted them with a gentle press against the table. "It wouldn't be the only thing. I know I have to start practicing at the barracks, and maybe the academy too. I've leant my talents to hauling around my wood for too long, time to find some balance, I think, and become better rounded." Become a weapon, he didn't say, because the idea rubbed against the very grain of him. He couldn't keep pretending that hiding in the forest was doing him any good though, and it was not doing enough for everyone else, or her. So while he couldn't bring himself to say it, that's what it would be. Maybe breaking himself and reforging as something new would make him feel better. "I just want to be worthy." of her.

He watched her carefully as she analyzed his more scientific request. Her smile, mild but there and sweeter than the others she'd flashed him, it gave him hope that he was on to something real and not imagined. She spoke softly. Too soft, so he leaned in, his hands gliding across the table in a manner that seemed less for balance and more to erase the space between them. Anything to better absorb what she had to say on this matter. She leaned in too, unexpectedly, and his fingers grazed the tips of hers as his attention strained wholly on the shape of her mouth, trying to discern those barely audible words. "How?" he nearly begged, whispering himself, as if afraid anything more might break the moment and send the answer fluttering out of reach.

I'M JUST STARTING TO LEARN
I'VE ALWAYS BEEN CHASING GHOSTS