"Our stories," he echoed softly, affirming it. He didn't move, or perhaps he didn't know how to: embracing Winter seemed to have become his default state, the environment he was most comfortable in. Perhaps he'd forgotten what it was like to be elsewhere. Oddly, the squeeze she gave him felt like it put more air in him, not less; but then again, he was no expert on hugs. He wasn't even an expert on meaningful glances.

He didn't know how to face her words head-on. Sometimes Winter's wonderful naivete was worth a fond laugh, but sometimes it was more like a river broken through a dam: forceful, unrelenting, more than ready to wear away any opposition it faced. Right now he felt like he might be swept away if he heard it all at once, so instead he worked around the edges.

"You really are the kindest person I've ever met," he whispered as he held her in that ruined Dwarven rest. "I wonder that I ever found you--that you ever found us," he corrected. "I don't think I did anything to deserve it."

"Zelly must have."