Midoriya thinks of the way Paul treats him and others--not when he's just being nice, but when he's scared and sad. He saw that slip--two--with the Unsnakely. Midoriya saw him in the forest blaming himself. He saw his eyes, just today, in the doorway of this house. Midoriya believes there's no way Paul isn't feeling defeated or apprehensive of another vision.

Midoriya's fingers curl on the countertop. All his edges subtly tremble. He is unable to play along with Paul's lie, nor hide that fact. He can't give Paul that comfort as easily as letting him make tea or hugging him. He's not that skilled. He can't even tell if it's a lie in whole or in part. He knows Paul can see him sitting here trapped in lie-truths.

He remembers that time Paul didn't let him get away with lying about being fine. Midoriya always repays that sort of kindness, even if he's floundering out of his depth.

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. Just know that you can," he says, giving Paul the soft, low finality in his voice as an out.