No doubt it's easier for her to shake off the weight of where they are. She doesn't feel attached to it; he has to attach it to her, or to her absence, at least. This place exists because at some point, for some reason, she will leave. It's more distant in every way for her than for him.

She doesn't watch him undress, gives him a moment to settle, as much as he can on his own. It's not that she expected him to jump at the chance to get her into bed-- that's not what this is about-- she's just hoping he won't be entirely miserable to have to be with her.

It's a gamble. And selfishly, it's a necessary one. Even before arriving here she's known there's something singular about their relationship; he draws her attention in a way no one else can, but he grounds and calms her, too. And now-- in this cavernous house that doesn't feel like anyone's home, thinking about ghosts of the future-- she wants that distraction, that comfort.

And so after a moment, she scoots closer to him. The easy thing to do would be to have her back against his side-- less demanding for him, easy enough to back away if he gets uncomfortable-- but it's not what she wants. So instead she rolls to face him, curling against him with her head on his shoulder, a hand placed lightly on his chest.