He manages a little wry smile at that; she sounds sympathetic, not angry, and as much as he might berate himself for how he's been coping (or the lack thereof), he doesn't think she's about to berate him. It curls into something more genuinely appreciative when she says she's been baking.

"You didn't have to do all that," he says, but he's already moving things off the counter. "I -- you know, I am," he admits. "I can't argue that we're neglecting things." Themselves, responsibilities; it runs together a little.

He ruffles his hair and, unable to restrain himself in the face of her kindness starts, "Greta, I'm sorry, I'm a disaster--"