[He struggled to pretend that they fit well in such easy domesticity, as much as the fractional daydreaming side of him wished, too used to the harsh reality of loneliness that his life that he was smart enough to not question. Better this way, considering how he worked. Safer; he wouldn't hang any hopes and then get disappointed.

He'd had quite enough of that.

He bends, picking his shirt up with two fingers, already pleasantly sore. He was going to feel it all day. The shirt is tugged back over his shoulders, sleeves tugged up to his elbow.]

The tattoos. Quite a few of 'em hurt more than the scars did, and some of the scars there were put there myself.. [He takes the cup and gives Paul a little warm smile.]

Hellva lotta money, too.