Maruki gave the tiniest nod, eyes trailing the rim of his glass as though it were suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world. He looked like he wanted to curl in on himself—wary, but still trying to smile through it, if only so he wouldn't seem like he was about to bolt. There was no offense taken in her words. In fact, they landed exactly where he'd expected.

"Of course you’d be on edge," he said softly, the amusement he'd tried to muster earlier almost completely stripped from his voice. "Honestly, if it were me, I wouldn’t even be giving me this much."

He glanced at her again, then down at his drink, rolling the base of the flute in slow, idle circles. "You've been more gracious than I had any right to expect. You didn't walk away. You didn’t even raise your voice. That’s... remarkable, really."

He hesitated, then laughed, but it was a hollow, self-deprecating sound. "Truth is, I didn’t want anyone seeing me like this. I mean, wandering into jazz clubs like I belong, pretending to be some kind of cultured regular? Not quite my speed." His hand scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck, and it was so clear in the gesture: he wasn't trying to make light of her distrust. He just didn’t know how else to stand there without collapsing into himself.