There's a touch of—not wariness, but a beat where he's gauging where they stand. Geralt does not care to defend his choices—doesn't feel he needs to—and he's here because there's a chance. That he could do what he'd failed to with Eskel. That perhaps there could be one less friend he'll lose.

Whether that's the right decision or not, only time will tell.

But she speaks, and Geralt tilts his head. Assessing, in the brief silence. It isn't friendly (they've not yet neared that stage), but it is less tension than he might've anticipated.

Another second. He holds out the bottle, wordless. That's what they're doing here, it seems. Sharing. Liquor, the late hour, proximity to the demon. Vague hopes it might actually work.

"You look..." Mm. Better may not be the term. "Healed."