"I wouldn't let them," she says lowly, with the same dark insistence she'd used back in London when she'd stopped Trevor Herbert the day she'd arrived in Darrow. She takes a deep pull from her glass. She refuses to react to even a suggestion of The Buried. Whether he'd meant it to hurt her or not, she won't flinch.

She sighs softly at the way he avoids her gaze, mistaking it for frustration with her, rather than any level of remorse. It's earned, probably. She's too much of a blunt instrument when it comes to looking for solutions. She wants to find the fastest, shortest route, even if it isn't necessarily the simplest. She's too impatient, and she wants to help John feel better, not make it worse. Maybe right now, in this moment, 'finding a solution' is exactly the wrong move to make.

She leans to grab the bottle, topping off their glasses.

"Anyway, don't snap at me," she says without heat. "I brought drinks, remember?"