Somewhere in her mind, she knows that their views don't really line up on this subject. That his entire life has been fixing the problems of other people -- whether for coin or not -- and she is still somewhat stuck in a world where everyone was out for themselves. Even before that, before society collapsed, she was from the heavily Puritanical, bootstrap suffering part of America, where asking for help in any way was a shameful thing. Every message she had received practically from birth was that she had to figure out her own shit, and never put it on anyone else. Never trust anyone else to handle it. They will see it as an inconvenience and hold it against you.

She loves him so much and she knows logically that he has said otherwise. But it's a hard idea to unlearn. And maybe he's hit the nail on the head with what he said. That she can't let go of the idea that she needs to do it alone. She's trying. There was a time not that long ago that she wouldn't have even left notes, she would have just disappeared.

With a quiet snort, she squeezes his hand and rocks with his weight bumping against her. "Thank you for comin'," she says softly. "And don't take this the wrong way, but do you spoon with Roach every night? Like, all night? 'Cause you smell like you're more horse than man right now."

She does not move, and she doesn't say it with any particularly deep disgust. Not that she likes it, but she's used to it, enough that it doesn't bother her. (But it would still be nicer if he didn't smell like he lives in a stall.)