Sitting back, Rhy lets him go, but his eyes linger on Wilhelm's face. He's left his own cup on the table, suddenly all too sober despite his solid attempts to be otherwise most of the night.

A flicker of a shadow crosses his features, something almost wounded, settling into a distant melancholy.

He meets Wilhelm's eyes.

"You don't really mean that."

It doesn't sound like a reprimand, or even cajoling. He says it like it's true, a matter-of-fact statement, not a question.