He nods, trying not to move too vigorously, not wanting to uspet either the butterflies, which have begun to land on them both, or her hand, which feels desperately comforting.

"I'd like that," he says, then hesitates. "How often?" He doesn't know why, exactly, but the idea of her being present in his head on a constant basis is a little unnerving, even when it's her, even when she can do this for him. "I don't want to, uh. Impose? Is that... the right word?" He looks at her, then away, out to the landscape and the multitudes of colorful insects. He loves it here, more than he's ever loved a place - loving places is a foreign thing to him. But he fears the possibility of wearing it - or her - out. "I mean I don't want to... cause you any trouble."