Her eyes close ever so briefly at that touch, her shoulders shifting ever faintly, in a way that doesn't quite reach a shiver or her pushing into the touch. Just enough, this close, aligned with almost her whole body, he can't miss it's not nothing. Him, touching her. Those soft words that he puts with them. Even if it doesn't bleed through air like it does through her chest like her ribs are suddenly gone, and everything in there is simply an ache that asks the question when was the last time he touched her like this?

But. No. No, she doesn't want that memory,
Or the reminder of each counted day,
and she squeezes her eyes shut.

Her jaw knits and unknits, and she opens her eyes, pushing for something that considers itself a fully coherent sentence. Then, she chooses something from ten feet over. And maybe it does divert, but it doesn't entirely change the topic. (And she still hasn't moved away.) Chin still steady, but light, so it's not digging in. "Why did you say earlier you think this is easier for you?"

Of course, she'd been turning over the exact words and the look on his face before she turned away, before she and sleep had finally found each other. Other people had hazy recollections of the words they said, that others said, but Barbara never did. And she could replay a memory a million times, from across all her years, without a touch of degradation. She may have turned away, but hadn't missed either.