It's a misstep on Wrench's part, the kind that might've cost him his life if anyone here were gunning for it. He's spent the last decade of his life fending for himself and laying low. Only once or twice has he gotten sloppy enough that it's nearly cost him his freedom, which is better odds than the danger he faced daily when he was working for Fargo. Still, he knows it only takes one slip-up. One tiny mistake, enough for a clear shot, and it's over in an instant. Sandor might not have reason but he doesn't seem like the type to need it, as far as Wrench is concerned. This ought to teach him to be more careful.

He doesn't turn around immediately, mostly because he's loath to appear like the other man can give him any kind of command. Wrench spares a moment to straighten out the Darkwolf fur he's wrapped around his shoulders. Sandor can wait a few seconds for him to finish preening before he finally faces the man. When he does, the corner of his mouth edges up in a half-smirk.

Aw, were you looking out for me? He gestures vaguely in the direction of the man's sword.