Instinctively, Jerry opens his mouth to respond — to protest, really — but finds, when he does, that the words don't come. It's too difficult to know what to say to that, a question it takes him a moment to realize that he doesn't understand at all. Of course that couldn't have been the case. He's loved her for so long, and so much of what he's done has been because of that, that it never occurred to him that there was a chance of her not already knowing. If he didn't want her to, it would have been far too late for that; the only thing he could have done to prevent it is keep his distance, and he already tried that once, with no success. After nearly losing her like he did, there isn't a chance in hell that he'd have found it worthwhile to try that again, anyway.

Frowning, he leans into her touch even so, keeping close. "Of course not," he says quietly. When he's aware that there's every chance he's already gone and fucked this up, however inexplicably, he doesn't want to risk saying the wrong thing now, even if he can't hide how puzzled he is. "I kind of figured you'd know already." More accurate would be that he can't comprehend how she wouldn't, but already, this hasn't gone as he intended it to. He's got the sense enough to try not to make that worse.