[ He spins the car keys idly in his hand as she gets her things together- it's a tic that matches one of his father's, though he isn't consciously aware of it. He'd be far more likely to link it to the smoothly fluid lightsaber flourishes he finds himself describing though the air in the the space between taunt and attack, if asked.
But the keys belong to the car that his father gave him, an object that belongs firmly here, in this world. He opens the door for her, stalks around to the other side in long, purposeful strides and folds himself behind the wheel, lips tugging into a curl as he starts the engine and peels them away from the curb.
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But the keys belong to the car that his father gave him, an object that belongs firmly here, in this world. He opens the door for her, stalks around to the other side in long, purposeful strides and folds himself behind the wheel, lips tugging into a curl as he starts the engine and peels them away from the curb.
It's not piloting, but it doesn't have to be. ]
You said you'd worked a garden, as a child?