He knows she can hear it, all the unspoken doubts he's harboring. She was good at that, after the coffin: lots of other things besides the quiet to listen to when you're not listening to the blood, he supposes. At least it saves him the embarrassment of having to voice anything, to say anything as baldly self-pitying as 'these things don't tend to work out for me' and weather the scorn that would certainly follow.

Maybe he can just take her word for it that happiness is something he might actually deserve.

Still, he can't resist a quiet snort and a dry, "I suppose my own psyche better watch its step, then," as he turns toward the coffee maker and starts to prepare her a cup.