The weight of her head fits neatly against the palm of his hand. He presses back accordingly, a lopsided attempt at combing his fingers through her hair, and watches at he does it: studies the shape of his fingers tangled there, the line of her profile and the length of her eyelashes - the kind of look that isn't meant to be seen, a thorough study.

He presses his thumb against her temple, draws a slow circle against the skin.

"Sure, alright."

Which is fantasy and stupid to boot and he knows she knows it too, but what the hell ever. He can say whatever he pleases here and they can both pretend it's the truth.