It's wrong to say his posture or his face changes. It doesn't. He's still looking at her with the same half unhingedominious focus. A second from a cat leaping, when he wouldn't need so much, both by what he is and because he is still as close as being able to whisper in her ear. To abuse her personal space like it doesn't exist, even as she pretends not to notice. She always notices.

The posture and face doesn't change. The air in the room doesn't sharpen, because it, too, is already sharp, jagged, shattered, like everything else around them on the ground, and out the broken window. But something turns tighter, harder. She can't see it, but she knows her point has scored a line somewhere. Somehow. She can feel it.

It might be a fools point. Calling him ignorant. Forgetful. Assumptive. Telling him that he is handing over what he called his only weakness.

"For now." She looks at him, level and straight on. Pushing him further. To know better. Maybe whatever it must be isn't here now, but that does not mean it will always be that way. It doesn't mean this world will always play by those rules. Sometimes it does. Sometimes it doesn't. They don't know why or who or what. Assumptions are dangerous as blind trust.

(As dangerous as baiting a monster already on a tear in its own den.

Maybe she's getting stupider the older she gets. She isn't walking away. Isn't sure she should.)

"There at least some good reason you're playing Suzy Homemaker in the street tonight?" As though it's not the ruin of these rooms, or Kol himself, this different version of himself, but the fact he was taking his temper tantrum outdoors to all of them that had actually concerned her.