"I'm not good at too many things," he said. "Don't say that—" He waved me off. "Let me finish. It's true. I can't speak eloquently and I knock shit over all the fucking time. I have a narrow subset of skills that mostly involves reciting song lyrics, knowing which sandwiches are best with chips in the middle, redesigning old homes, and giving people nicknames." He took a step closer, right into my space, and the absence of that distance crushed the last of my resolve. "I'm not good at many things. But I'll always be good to you."
