The touch isn't unwelcome. All of this ought to feel strange, but he enjoys the fantasy he's indulging a bit too much-- a woman to come home to, fixing his dinner and listening to his blues, touching his hair and comforting him like he's a man who deserves such a thing. He knows it ain't reality and it never will be, but for a moment he lets himself imagine, lets himself believe the lie. His stomach is snarling but Willa's hand in his hair sets him at ease, and he leans his head into her touch and then lifts his gaze to meet hers. His eyes are tired and tortured, but he offers a small smile to try to mask his misery somewhat. He shakes his head, lifting his hand to catch Willa's from his hair, closing his own around hers to give it a quick squeeze before releasing it.
"Sorry, sweetheart," he says, and he means it. "Don't mean to dump nothin' on you. Just reckon you'd rather know the truth." He's got no reason to hide the truth from her. He knows Willa well enough by now to feel sure that she'd rather the hard truth than an easy lie anyway, and she's certainly not the type of woman who does well with being left in the dark. She strikes him as the sort who fares much better with full disclosure. Which is exactly what he plans to give her tonight. "I'm afraid I ain't done givin' you bad news, my darlin'. I been meanin' to talk to you 'bout some things. I mean, if you're feelin' inclined to hear me out."