He swallows against the words, looks to her hand first - face a small moment after.

He has absolutely no idea what prompted her to say that. But it's only when she says it that he realizes he hasn't heard those few simple words nearly enough.

He can barely remember. He knows his dad told him a few times ... and his mother, back during those frightening nights of his childhood when he thought he might die.

No one had told him things would be okay when his life started falling apart because others couldn't go on living. And when he'd miraculously survived that thing in Pittsburgh, it hadn't been "it's going to be okay", it had been "you're lucky to be alive". It had been "we're glad you're back", "feel better", "good luck" and "take care".

Never any reassurance for the future. It didn't bother him because he didn't notice, didn't think to care - it wasn't anyone's place to tell, because no one knows what the future holds.

And Heather is no exception. Which is why he's surprised to find that the words mean something to him.

All things considered, it's a nice thing to hear, true or not.

He gives her a mild smile that probably comes across as just a touchy shaky and reaches out to return the gesture: her hand on his lower arm, his on hers. And he runs his free hand over his mouth in a distracted motion that serves no real purpose.

"Thanks."

It's a little quieter and tighter than usual but he's fine, really.