[She paints him in poetry in the secret parts of her mind. If he knew, there'd be too many things to feel, so many things to say that he probably couldn't manage. How good she makes him out to be, yet he knows so little of himself, and worse, what he does know, the taste of blood in his teeth. How would he reconcile these versions of himself?

It's not something he needs to worry about yet. Right now, what he feels is the lightest winding of his hair. He wants to turn around and look at her. He doesn't want her to let go.

He almost points out that she's not the first person he's helped-- just the first person he's stuck it out with and who survived this world. She's the first person to write and so he wrote back. But that thought is interrupted.]

Cool...

[It might seem a flippant answer, but there's reverence in it. He holds those words like precious treasures.

She gets back to combing and he hums.]

That feels... really nice... Literally... can't remember... how long it's been...

[Since he was touched. At least, in a good way. His thoughts take a turn then.]

Ryder... is there... anyone you're... looking for...? Anything...?