Something in Molotov's gaze looks a tiny bit wounded, that he can care for her so much but not say it, even when she'd summoned up her own courage to say it.

She could be the mature one, keep talking it through, see what's holding him back that way when she's bared herself.

Instead, she rolls away, curling up slightly and tucking one arm under the pillow, unsure of how even cope with her own feelings.