[ He watches the way her expression softens, turns a little warm as she speaks on her husband, and he feels a strange sort of twist. Something a little bitter, a little sad, and he’s not rightly sure why. Not as though he knew the man personally to have any particular feelings on him, one way or the other. It’s clear that Emma was fond of him, though he’d known that for ages, now. (Why else would she wander away from the relative safety of her home to search for wild men with violence in their blood, if not for vengeance?)

Maybe part of him wishes he had someone who thought of him that way, though he hardly wants to admit that, even to himself, backs away from that treacherous thought like someone might avoid the unsteady grounds above a mine. He was too rough around the edges, too covered in nettles and barbs; he didn’t need that softness when he was alive, and he needs it even less, now. ]

I bet you were a menace at the table.

[ is what he settles on. He puts on a wry sort of smirk, an eyebrow quirking upwards. ]

I can just picture you gettin’ all red in the face when you end up with the Black Lady.