[Her shoulders relax from a tension she didn't realize she'd built up. No, no they don't have to do this right now. She's not going anywhere and neither is he, she hopes.]

...Tell you what. My shack's over there. [She folds her arms across her chest, offers a sympathetic grin. Layering on the "embodiment of chill" act piece by piece.] Go inside, take a hot drink, and I won't follow you or ask you any more questions. I won't come in until you leave. Then, one day, after this bullshit with the sun is over with, you can tell me what I need to know. And I'll listen for real that time. That gives you a week without me bugging you to decide what you do and don't want to say.

For the record, this ain't pity. It's respect. Do we have a deal?