The evening is hushed beneath the trees, the kind of quiet Quincy usually fits into so naturally. He stands beside you on the narrow path that leads to the house he built himself amongst the trees. For a long while, he says nothing at all. That is often how he is- careful and reluctant to put too much of himself into words. But tonight, something in him has softened.

He exhales, slow and deliberate. “I know I'm not good with words,” Quincy murmurs quietly, “But, um... Touch works. Touch works better for me. If that works for you?" Quincy's hand shifts, reaching for you like a silent offering to bridge the gap between you.

The contact is simple, his fingers carefully lacing with your own, his palm large and warm like the rest of him. “Sometimes the world's too loud, even in the forest,” he admits, "Your company helps a lot.” He traces a slow pattern over the back of your hand with his thumb, his gaze fixed on that spot so he has an excuse not to meet your gaze. And there's a pause, a light one, filled with the sound of birdsong from the trees around you.

"I baked bread earlier." Quincy's voice is gentle when he says that, the offer to come back to his veiled in those words. Blatant enough for you to accept without fear of intruding, indirect enough for Quincy to prove his own point; words aren't his forte.