That sounds like roughly five kinds of nothing she wants to do, actually, but - it also sounds like it might be useful. And maybe she's been doing it wrong, all this time, and he's a healer, he'd know the proper way, wouldn't he? The discomfort and hesitation are both visible - he looks at her, but it's not that she avoids meeting his gaze so much as her own doesn't hold anything, birdlike in her inability to both be composed and hold still the longer this conversation continues.

Everything's fine, probably. She ignores the thought in her head that says I want to go home because she was home, and it was fucking terrible. It's the desire for comforts that never existed, and it doesn't mean anything.

"All right," she settles on. "Maybe it will be useful for." A beat. "Things."

You know, stuff.

('Trying to get to sleep' isn't the only time she could stand to know how to breathe herself still.)