Anne's too comfortable, too relaxed, too easily soothed in the aftermath of heat and blood and liquor, and it's moments too late by the time she realizes how still Jack's gone, how stiff his shoulders are, how fraught his expression.

The ways he intones her name carries weight she wasn't prepared for, doesn't want and doesn't wish to acknowledge. Goes beyond the usual fussing, the heavy sigh and chiding lecture she'd expected. There's something far more serious in it and she doesn't want it, doesn't want to understand it. She blinks at him, part a genuine confusion and part playing the fool.

"Fuck's your problem," she says, more blunt and more stubborn than he deserves, too frustrated by this sharp turn away from calm and comfort to restrain herself.