[ He doesn't fear the idea of life after all of this — but he finds himself relishing it less than he once might have. Against his better judgment, he's grown used to their little camp — even fond of it, though he likely wouldn't say as much out loud. And he would miss them — miss her — were they all to splinter. The thought makes him uncomfortable, twists his gut into a knot he doesn't know how to untie.

Loneliness— he'd never liked it, per se (preferred it, perhaps, for the sake of self-preservation), but the idea of fearing it is somehow humiliating.

But she jokes, mimicking his cadence of speech, and it makes it easy for him to laugh, to roll his eyes, to think about other things — to think only about how close they are to each other, about the blush that colors her cheeks (that he'd once thought lost to him). ]

It doesn't require flowery turns of phrase for one's words to be considered pretty, little dove.

[ He glances at her sidelong, letting her parse his meaning for herself. Then, an allowance — a gentle confirmation:]

We see each other better, now. Besides, it wasn't so unfair.

[ A shrug, not argument so much as an understanding of what he is, how he works — he'd presented her with an image of himself that had not been entirely genuine. That she'd noticed the differences between what he'd put forth and what he was is not a fault. ]

All that to say — I'm glad of it. I suppose you'll do, as far as a mirror goes.