[ He doesn't see a lot of miracles, either. In fact, he's been on the opposite end of a miracle for what feels like his whole life, weaving outcomes with his own two bare and bloodied hands. Measuring his thoughts, the weight of his own tongue in his mouth, he exhales a little bit. And settles on: ]

That's a shame. [ Truthful in its brevity. ] But I guess I could say I'm familiar with thinking that way too. All or nothing.

[ You either get it right or, well.

Well.

And in his long list of poor decisions, the thought strikes him that he hopes this won't be another. For her sake, if nothing else. Lighter levels a glance downwards, gaze shadowed only slightly by the sweep of his messy bangs, the consideration creased into his brow. He extends his hand this time, beckoning for hers again. ]

You don't mind, do you?