He knows she can't. They're too alike, the two of them. It's why they work well together but also stumble in supporting each other. But her cold sweats and jumpiness communicate to him where words can't.

"If you say so," he says, not like a child like her but like a teenager shutting down an argument by walking from it. It's not settled between them, he knows it's not, and for a few moments he just holds her and listens to her breathing and considers the tool he has, the atomic bomb that would shift their relationship towards a more peaceful future.

The hell with it. He deploys.

"I do love you, Molotov Cocktease."