[ He finally deigns to look at her and Mary holds his gaze without flinching, her smile crooked and unkind, almost playful. ]

I already asked for warm milk and bourbon. I’ll take whatever you have.

[ Water, he had said, but she’s skeptical. Not enough to get up and look through the fridge herself, though. Or perhaps she can’t just be bothered. His notions of milk and cookies, being tucked in, are dismissed with a careless pull of her eyes. His proximity isn’t unwelcome; standing over her as he is, she can feel the animalistic warmth emanating off of him in waves, heat and blood and life. Mary’s been cold to the touch, like unlit glass at night, always. ]

Why don’t you tell me something, Sheriff. Why are you so concerned why I am here? Are you worried I’ll stick your little pig friend?

[ Standing out of the chair, she takes advantage of his proximity to enforce her presence. Although her head tilts back a fraction, she stands uncomfortably close to him.

Either he’ll step away or he won’t.

As far as Mary is concerned, either one is a win for her and a loss for him. ]