Bitterroot Valley Enter, Pursued by a Memory

He made note of that, the 'better than I have in weeks', and after hearing it, there was a small, yet clear shift in his expression. Curiosity. Concern—not that she could not hold her own, but rather, that someone who had boosted his mood in such an extreme way was one to have any reason whatsoever to not be sleeping well. To him, it seemed quite unfair on the lady.
Yeah, he hummed. Eyes searched her, for a moment. Wanting to ask, and yet, not wanting to pressure, to scare, to fuck up whatever quiet, peaceful moment this was, because, however temporary it was, he was enjoying it. Truly. Genuinely. So, he started carefully, saying: You ain't gotta talk to me 'bout nothin', his voice was low. Intimate, almost. As if sharing a secret. But I got ears on ma'ead n' a brain, so, what I'm tryna say is, I'd listen.
He spoke once more. If ya wanted to. No pressure, o'course.

Barrett stood, now. Looked to the lady. You were talkin' 'bout that lake, yeah? How 'bouts ya show me the way, nodded forwards. Smiling, still. And it would be his goal to try and make her smile, too.