He’s never claimed to be good at anything involving deeper emotions. Forethought and introspection aren’t needed when you kill people for a living, and trying to think too hard on anything in regards to his line of work could only lead to horror. It’s easier to push everything away, put the reality of his actions and their impact (their potential) to the back of his mind and barrel on forward. Trying to parse out dangers that don’t immediately involve grievous physical harm is difficult, makes him uncomfortable.

There’s a quiet exhale as he rubs his face with one hand, eyes closed; it’s too much. Perhaps it’s good for him in the long run, but it’s too much for now. Fingers dig lightly into the bone near his eyes, a paltry attempt to chase away an impending headache, but it’s a certain failure. How is he supposed to deal with her saying that? No one says that. No one has said that.

No, there aren’t words, there isn’t a gushing acceptance of the weight of everything, because he’s not good at this. Frustration bubbles in the back of his brain, and he tries to ward it off. Inhale. Exhale. It doesn’t work. There’s a tremor in his hands, it makes him angrier. Makes him afraid.

His eyes don’t open, and he remains still, save for reaching out and grabbing her wrist, unfortunately none too gently. There’s nothing further though, save for the steady rise and fall of his chest.