The facility with which Simon folds his volatile emotions back into a neat little box comes from years of childhood conditioning to control himself, never to be physical with his anger lest he harm his smaller peers, because it's far too easy to do an injury he can't take back, if he isn't careful and calm.

It's that long-ingrained training that makes him wary of the tiny little nuglet, as if afraid he might crush her in the palm of his hand no matter how gentle he is with her, and Myr's own tenderness makes him feel all the clumsier in comparison. This is why Wren doesn't trust him; this is why she could swap in any other big stupid brute in the Inquisition and serve her purposes just as well--

"I don't know," he says, twisting the coconut in his hands and finding some comfort in its inanimate sturdiness. "She's such a delicate wee thing. Where'd you get her?"