There's no reason at all for her to panic. No reason he can account for, unless it's that she's trying to account for something she can't say, and there's very little he can imagine would fit that bill other than a few years' memories in another world. Carol, like anyone, is entitled to her privacy-- more than most, maybe, given she was denied it for so long-- but if there's a chance of this then damn right he wants to dig a little deeper.

He answers that with an affirmative hum. Maybe not as clear a confirmation as she'd hoped, if she's hoping. Her idle comment isn't exactly a declaration either, and for a moment he almost wants to laugh at how ridiculous this is if they really are avoiding the same thing, oblivious to the collateral damage of sparing each other's feelings.

He racks his brain for a better answer, something more sure, something she couldn't mistake, but short of blurting out the whole truth he hasn't got many food ideas. Instead he shifts his hand all too casually-- she has to feel it, the intent stillness of his stance, the way his attention is wholly focused on her-- and settles it on her shoulder. Not so abnormal. She shouldn't find it too unusual; they're close, of course, at home they're close, especially after Terminus, after Atlanta.

(And if he's right, then she doesn't know that.)

His fingers fall idly on her shirt, his thumb falls deliberately along the line of her spine, and he tries to figure out a way to look without seeming like he's looking.