Truth be told, Faye loves being pampered. Loves having doors opened for her, loves having someone wait on her, loves all the luxuries that she thinks that people are practically programmed to love, at the bottom of it all, even if guilt gets in the way of some and pushes them towards supposed altruism. There's a line, of course. Too much meddling, and she's liable to feel less in control of her life— and that's worse.

But a bag of clothes, probably acceptable.

Still, she wrinkles her nose, making a bit of a fuss. "Four months, Dean. My balance isn't shot yet, and I'm pretty sure I can handle a few pounds' worth of clothes," she points out, tilting her head in time to nudge her nose against his cheek before muttering, "I'm pretty sure I've handled the addition of more than that already, judging by the scale."