At first he's convinced he didn't word this properly. That flat "what" and the blank look on Julie's face is...worrying. R sits there reviewing what he said and can't see anything wrong with his groaning. It said what he needed it to. Concerned, he searches her face as she retreats into her head, studying him with her teeth nibbling her lip as if he's pulling her leg, as if she can't - won't - open herself up to that little shred of hope.

Then it sinks in and Julie's suddenly up on her feet and leaning over the table.

His eyes meet hers as she touches his chest: it's warmer than before, only a ghost of a heartbeat but not that corpse cold either. Instead of stiffness, there's give. It's too bad his heart isn't thudding louder, he thinks regretfully. Would've be nice to surprise her with that. These days he worries it'll just stop, give up.

"Those I...infect...come back," R says, picking his words with care. His voice seems less hoarse than usual, almost...human. "Why...not my...turn? Escort said...change's...good."

He creaks out a smile, tentative, thankfully not showing too many teeth behind his muzzle. Hopefully one day, he'll be able to walk, not shuffle, to Julie and say what he really thinks in his head without worrying about syllables or decomposing on her. She's held out hope in the post-apocalypse life they've both shared, met a zombie who can groan words. There must be a little more room for this.

R's hand reaches up to touch hers, to remind her that what's happening is real. It's not some pipe dream.