He gives her the space, and the time, to gather herself so she can go back through it. And when she speaks, his eyes are locked on her. Her words carry a heavy weight with them that he doesn't know how to process.
Especially the last ones.
He rubs small, gentle circles against her hand with his thumb. "About us?" It hits, hard. Because he'd deluded himself into believing his own excuses and lies--that he'd come home eventually, that he still cared somehow. But at least now? With this kind of confirmation? They can stop wondering. And hoping. And wishing. They can hurt. And grieve. And move on.