He does; from where he is he can see the openings between the haybales, the spare horse blankets that've been used as seats but are now scattered with hay themselves, and the bags of emergency oats set against the wall.

Quatre reaches back to touch Trowa's forearm, then as he turns shifts his hand so that his left arm is resting against Trowa's side. He breathes for a moment, and smiles. "I missed you," he admits. "Tonight, I mean."