"Don't say can't," Sol says, a snap to his words hinting at temper that few people get a look at, though Torrie has seen itplenty of times. He reels it in because it will hurt more than help, and because he just wants to be around her and not ruin it just now - but it simmers there. "I told you I don't care what people think. Your other reasons are your own, Tor, but all that crap about my position is nothing."
It is ground they have covered a hundred times, a thousand, maybe. But just like the offer, he says it again. Reiterating, in case today is the day that it sticks.
Sol has never worried about tomorrows. He refused to spend his life wondering if the tumor in his brain is growing back, creeping up on him, and he learned early that there is only now, only today. If Torrie would come back with him, then he would figure out how to make it work. If it didn't work at the hospital, he would find somewhere else to make it work - somewhere that people aren't fed to dogs, and temptation doesn't lurk around every corner like a film noir creeper in a too-big trench coat. He isn't afraid of leaving things behind, even that one place that has stuck with him through everything since he was six years old. He is quite adept at moving his restless feet.
But he can't make Torrie willing, he can't force her to think as he does, and he can't make her leave the dark behind for good. Free will is the most important thing to him in the world, but he also just knows that forcing together pieces that don't want to fit just leaves them mangled up in the end. It has to be her choice to ever work.
So even though she's pale as paper, even though she's thin and shadowed, Sol still doesn't put his foot down. Instead, like always, he just offers her his hand, and if she takes it, well, it will just be worth all the more.
"Course I didn't find her already," he says, frowning at her but lighter now, rolling his eyes in his turn. "When are you not my first stop?"