Storm, of course, hadn't actually been doing anything other than considering what to do with the already dying flower, but the hand on his shoulder mixed with the gruff, sudden voice in his ear, provoked an instantaneous reaction. The accusation spurned a very, very, dark turn in his aura. An almost black, and an added tiny crackle of lightning that faded- once he realized who he was dealing with. He sighed, turned to her, and offered the clover, its pink petals flared and maimed, marked with a shoe print.
"I'm sorry if I scared you." he apologized, "Someone felt the need to trample on this clover patch. This one was just laying out in the grass."
He gestured to the trampled patch, the yellowing grasses and other splattered clovers. Those ones might live, but this one, rootless and starving, would not. "It's dying, but it's not entirely dead. I was trying to think of something to do with it."