Maruki regarded her carefully, his concern obvious in the way his brows knit together, in the way his arms loosened slightly from their cross over his chest.

She was still wired, still running off the tail end of a near-disaster, and that smile—that too-perfect, too-practiced smile—wasn't fooling him for a second. He had seen people do it before. He had done it before.

He exhaled, slow and steady, before shaking his head. "You don’t have to push yourself to go over it right now," he said, his voice gentler now. "You just went through something incredibly stressful. Give yourself a moment to breathe first."

It wasn’t lost on him how lucky she was to still be standing here. The fact that Zenkichi hadn’t shot her on sight—or worse—was something of a miracle. Reasonable? No, Maruki wouldn’t call him that. But given what he himself had faced, given how things could have gone... maybe there had been a sliver of restraint there. A moment where things didn’t spiral entirely beyond control.

He sighed and reached into the pocket of his hoodie, fingers brushing against something familiar. With a slight shake of his head—half exasperated at himself, half amused—he pulled out a small, half-finished box of matcha Pocky, tearing it open with one hand before holding it out toward her.

"Here," he offered. "I don’t know if it’ll help, but—well. Something sweet can sometimes take the edge off after a bad shock."