He wants to. He wants her smile back. Or, failing that, he wants to see some of that tension that sings through her body to fade away.

But he doesn't morph. He's not ready. And he just knows that if he does, he'll do something wrong. Say something wrong. And make things worse.

So he stays where he is, perched on the back of the couch. But he does turn his head slightly, pressing his beak gently against that finger.

Offering what he can.