His hands about hers are very secure, gentle but not tentative, and when Wysteria sets her spare hand over top of them it's a quiet thing but not delicate.

"You're welcome. But--" But. Her look is more direct, sharp edged. "I am obligated to say that if you were only more mindful about wearing gloves, you might not have needed them tended in the first place."

She pats the combination of their hands, squeezes whichever of his wrists is most convenient and strictly informs him that, "You should also know that this is the last time I will feed your chickens, Mister Ellis. So unless you mean to pack them up with you, I suggest that we all must simply agree to put our leaving days behind us. It would be easier for everyone, I think. The planning it would take to do otherwise--"

Wysteria tsks between her teeth.