"I'm concerned about this talk of you goin' through shirts, Derek, 'cause I don't know if that means you manage to rip your way out of them every day, or if you just hate doing laundry," Sookie says, her gaze softening when she feels Derek's fingers brushing over the curve of her ear, tucking her hair out of the way. It's such a small gesture, but a telling one nonetheless. It's not the sort of thing that a person would do unless they cared for a person.

It makes Sookie's cheeks flush slightly. Even in a moment like this — or maybe especially considering the circumstances — it's nice to feel cherished. Protected. Shielded.

Tomorrow, she can work on galvanizing herself again. But today, she just can't summon the effort.

"Mm, if you don't mind seeing me home if I get impossibly sloshed, then a drink sounds like a good idea," Sookie agrees with a nod, holding her hand out for the glass of whiskey and taking a small sniff. She's always liked the scent of it, spicy and sharp, reminding her of days long ago when she used to sit next to her grandfather while he was reading a book late at night. Smiling at the large gulp Derek takes, Sookie follows suit, wrinkling her nose briefly at the burn.

"That's kind of the tragedy of it all, Derek," she says, looking up to meet his gaze. "We're going to be okay, because there's nothing else we can be. We're stubborn survivors like that."