Watching her his eyes narrow, his head has tilts—blank-faced aggression softened by bemusement that he needs a moment to shake off, when she speaks, before he looks back at his belongings and realizes what she means.
"I try."
It's the sort of polite religious humility that doesn't mean anything genuinely humble, once it's overlaid on the confidence of redemption. He's flawed, God is forgiving, trying is enough.
"You can have that if you like." The jumpsuit. For what purpose, he has no idea—she'd drown in it—but he doesn't care. He finishes the last two buttons on his shirt, then takes both black boots out of his locker by their toplines and drops them on the changing bench behind him, from a high enough distance to get a disdainfully careless thunk but a low enough one that they stay neatly upright. "And those."
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"I try."
It's the sort of polite religious humility that doesn't mean anything genuinely humble, once it's overlaid on the confidence of redemption. He's flawed, God is forgiving, trying is enough.
"You can have that if you like." The jumpsuit. For what purpose, he has no idea—she'd drown in it—but he doesn't care. He finishes the last two buttons on his shirt, then takes both black boots out of his locker by their toplines and drops them on the changing bench behind him, from a high enough distance to get a disdainfully careless thunk but a low enough one that they stay neatly upright. "And those."