It's hard for him to shake the habit of reacting to most people getting close to him like a sulking child, bristling and glaring at best. Carol has put up with more than her share of that. After everything-- all winter on the road, her riding behind him and holding on tight; losing her in the tombs and bringing her back against all odds-- there's a hard-won ease that makes this much, this easy contact, blessedly simple. That's what means everything to him, what he'd be afraid to lose by going too far. There's nothing it would be worth trading for; maybe it's how he's grown and changed, maybe it's just how the end of the world shifts your priorities.

He loves her. He'd never say it, any more than he'd say it to Rick or Glenn or even to his own brother, because it's not the kind of thing he says, but that doesn't make any of it less true. What it means, what he wants, that he doesn't know. He's used to not worrying about it, they've got other things to waste their worrying on. Maybe in Teleios that's not going to work. It's safer, here; they're not constantly at death's door; maybe whatever they are will become the elephant in the room and they'll have to deal with it, but for now she's still smiling at him, so it's all right for now. If he lost what they've got over something as stupid as a kiss, he'd... well, best not to dwell on it.

But it's all right. The slightest curve of a smile pulls at his lips when she kisses his forehead, thinking of the same thing, how uncomfortable he was laid up in that bed and with next to nothing to show for it, how far they've come and how hard they've fought, since.

He leans in again, not to steal another kiss-- there are limits to his bravery-- but to wrap his arms around her for a moment, tucking his face against her shoulder, because he can, no matter what else is uncertain. This much is understood.