It would have been nice if the tree beneath which they stood was still throwing its scent everywhere. He liked the smell -- who didn't like the smell of mimosas? -- but it was almost nostalgic in a way he could never quite place. It made him think of her fondly, in a way that most everyday things didn't. It made him remember that there had been a moment once, however brief, that she'd reached out her hand and trusted him.
The the tree itself was proof of that even without the smell, and he leaned heavily on the trunk, chuckling softly as she glared up the tree for releasing its leaves upon her. "I figured you might want to keep your distance," he said, reaching out to pick the leaves from her hair. "And I don't blame you. You'll have work to do. Just... write me when you can."