There’s an off-axis give to his answering silence -- the torsion of a screw that’s been wound in and out a few too many times in its life stripping as it’s pressed. Resistance is being displaced, rearranged, changed.

“You were speaking from the heart.”

He’s been very fixated on the table these last few seconds, until whatever it is warps free, and he can look up to back assurance with eye contact. So carefully squared, he hefts his tankard to drink.

“I know they’re important to you.”