Hemingway laughed at first, because of course he knew that. But then she kept talking, kept giving him reasons, and it really hit him. No matter how much he knew she loved him for him, there would always be a part of him, even a subconscious part of him, that placed the entirety of his value on the stories he could tell. If he didn't write, he was pointless, life was pointless, he had nothing else to give- but there she was, talking about the best parts of him, and his stories were nowhere in sight.
He stopped, despite their proximity to warmth and privacy now, and pulled her into a hug just for a moment. "Thank you," he whispered to her, before placing a light kiss to her cheek and pulling back again.
"Sure, sure- purely being practical," he joked a little as they resumed walking toward their destination. "Is there somewhere weird you'd want to have sex?" he asked after a moment's thought.