Her eyes are large and dark in the twilight, but he's glad to see them instead of the back of her head. He shifts closer, their foreheads almost touching, his murmured words filling the remaining space between them.

"Of course I want you to talk to me, honey. And I-- I wanna talk to you, too, but-- you know how some things are harder than others to talk about. I know it's the same for you. So it might take some time, but I understand, too. And I know I wasn't there for the Apocalypse or the Wasteland, but I know about what happens when you get back from all that. The kind of shit that gets stuck in your head. The dreams, the ghosts, the blood, the guilt. And I might not know how to make things better, but-- but I do know that-- that sometimes it's easier to deal with if you ain't alone."

And that it's always hard to admit when you need help.