He knows what she's doing, he's done it himself a time or two (or ten or twenty) - there's no ship's psychiatrist. If someone has a problem it falls on him to get them to talk it out. It's harder to talk your way around someone if you have to look them in the eyes while doing so.

He doesn't particularly want to go further down this road.

He turns, leaning against the counter, his hands still tangled in the towel, a flash of steel in his eyes.

He saw her once, after he left. She was five. She was beautiful.