"The problem isn't that I don't want you to," he said softly, "It's that I shouldn't want you to. I shouldn't continue to ..." He shook his head; why was he even thinking this, considering admitting it? Madness, surely. "... to dwell on it," he decided on.
It seemed the most diplomatic answer, really. Dwelling? Yes, it was certainly that. Far more, really, but he couldn't admit to that, not even to her, if for no other reason than fear that she'd be disgusted with him.