Eventually, he's not needing to focus to keep his breathing even, even while still feeling...chaotic, inside. He slants a look towards Pradnakt. "I- m'sorry, ma'am?" he murmurs. (If in doubt, apologise.)

She looks up from the pad. "Hmm?"

(Daisy has finished in the kitchen, in the meantime, and gone around to sit next to her.)

He opens his mouth, realises he has no idea what to say, and gives a small shrug instead.

"Have you ever heard poetry before?"

He shakes his head slowly. "No, ma'am. I- m'sorry?"

"You shouldn't be, it's not your fault," she says lightly. "Anyway, it's all like that - not so much, usually, I picked those out special, but poetry is all about feelings. Do you want to hear some more?"

His immediate instinct is 'not if it makes him feel like that'.

But- but-

He can't, actually, read a preference or an order from her words. Saying 'no' still feels like it might be the wrong answer and-

(He's curious.)

"...Please?"

She nods. "I'll go easier on you, yeah." She considers, and then begins:

"From blossoms comes
this brown paper bag of peaches
we bought from the boy
at the bend in the road where we turned toward   
signs painted Peaches.

From laden boughs, from hands,
from sweet fellowship in the bins,
comes nectar at the roadside, succulent
peaches we devour, dusty skin and all,
comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.

O, to take what we love inside,
to carry within us an orchard, to eat
not only the skin, but the shade,
not only the sugar, but the days, to hold
the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into   
the round jubilance of peach.

There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom."

[source]

He curls down on himself some, less a defensive motion and more settling into a comfortable position that doesn't involve leaning against the table. He still can't identify what the words are doing to his insides, but this one is altogether more pleasant.

She grins, and recites with an amused confidence:

"This Is Just To Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold."

[source]

He's silent for a moment, and then makes a quiet sound that could possibly be a giggle. (He seems a little startled by the noise.)

"Mmhmm," She grins. "One more?"

Her grin is almost infectious and gets a tiny, shy smile from Nova, who, after a moment of thought, nods - not quite eagerly, but close to it.

"I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils."

He makes a quiet, not entirely conscious, humming sound. He's still feeling...something, but it's...calmer.

Thank you, he signs.

You're welcome.

I'm going to get to work, do you want to watch?

He's quiet for a moment or two, before giving a small nod.

Hmh.

"Nova," she calls, gently, for his attention.

He looks up a little, but still can't quite bring himself to look at her face.

That's all right.

"You really want to help?"

He looks a little startled, and then nods almost-eagerly.

"All right."

"I have a secret," she continues, not pausing quite long enough for him to respond. "People probably won't believe you if you tell them, but if they do it could get me in a lot of trouble. Understand?"

He nods again, sharp and serious.

"I do healing," she says, a hint of pride warming her voice. "Like you do fire; it's natural to me. And - you can probably feel things about other fires, right? I can feel things about how healthy people are, the same way. I really have been worried about you."

There's more than a little bit of awe from him in response to that. Awe, and a sense of shame (fire destroyed, healing... healing was good and useful).

And... And yes. He could feel other fires, although he'd hidden that more than the flames.

He doesn't know how to take the concern, has so rarely had it directed at him and yet... "I- I'm sorry? I- hadn't- I don't- it's- nothing to- I. Worry about?" (He winces and flinches, because Pradnakt is going to know better than him, but he's still standing, and he's been fed far more than he needs, given plenty of time to rest, hasn't been punished or...or had to do that, and that's more than he's ever had before.)