Setting down the socks, Barrow heaves a sigh of contentment, or admiration, or perhaps both. He angles his head to look at Fitcher: the curve of her jaw, the angle of her brow, the corners of her mouth set just so.
And she's come to see him, of all people.

"I'm very fond of you," he confesses, before he can stop himself. Immediately he winces with an apologetic grin-- it's difficult to be properly suave and debonair when one is lain out in one's underclothes.