Don't start being too proud of me over there in all that sunlight. [The throatiest little puff of fond surrender, therein residing the difference between trust and raw submission: that to be terrified of what someone else sees in you means becoming perfect in pure presumption— the impossible infallibility of a kept slave— versus the small, fragile, unreliable and occasionally irrational reality of someone with a will all his own.

He can wear his flaws without immediately rolling over onto his belly now that the storm of ancient uncertainty's passed. He's glad, too. And grateful— even if he hasn't said it yet (they're both trying their level best, and Leto's tone is proof enough of that).

Although the broader spectrum of that also means admitting:]

Not five minutes later and already I want to ask about everything you've got tucked away inside that lovely little skull of yours. [Painful secrets, unsightly memories, old, shut up nightmares. Every impulse. Every fear. Every last shuttered hope.

How's that for fairness, hmm?]