*lets his gaze fall, too afraid of his own reaction (pain? embarrassment? basic, stupid lust?) and of you seeing it to meet your eyes* *stands when you do, still not really looking at you, again feeling that same absurd compulsion to let laughter bubble over (look at us...just a pair of jacks-in-the-box)*
*somehow does muster the courage to look you in the eye and say something before you can walk out the door* Listen. *softly, almost pleading* I can't help but feel like we got off... oh god ...off on the wrong foot. Again. I don't want... I want to start over. Wipe the slate clean. Can we do that?
*holds out his hand to you as if to shake yours, as he might have done in a frigid wasteland in another world long ago (and your injuries make the process every bit as delicate and uncertain as gloves and numbness would, but his eyes are still clear, and kind)* Ehtelion. Of Alpalondë.