L's answer is silence. She's right, of course; he already believes that there was a chance his Other was attracted to his handsome young suspect, despite his gender, likely criminal status, and supposed girlfriend. What if there were other, worse things? What if years investigating the ugliness of human crime had warped him to the point where normal human sexuality was dull and meaningless, was that even possible?

"My hand's fine," he murmurs as she nudges it. It still aches dully, but nothing more than the faint ache that's ever-present. "It's nowhere near the mess it was, so it's actually great, relatively speaking."