He does not catch the softness. Has no ability to discern that any would hold any softness for him, least of all her. (He is so undeserving of softness, so undeserving of anything resembling fondness.)
He just knows that he offers up the answer because it is the only thing he knows how to do.
Give unto her all that he is—all that is hers.
There is something like a shudder when she accepts his answer. When she does not turn him away or squash him beneath her thumb or, worse, laugh in the face of his simple truths.
Instead she just nods and promises him that she would take him and, were it possible, he finds that he can love her more—worship he more. She who would have the kindness to accept his dull answers.
He dips his bulky head and looks down at his feet as a thank you, before looking back up, studying her delicate face. “Thank you,” the words feel odd on his tongue—so shallow and cheap—but he offers them up anyway. For a moment, he turns his gaze away to look into the horizon where the sun slowly gathers.
“Where is it?" he asks, afraid of his own boldness. “Your favorite place?”
turn your head toward the storm that’s surely coming along