He turns his head to look at her. To see her beaming at him. He doesn't smile back, because - he hasn't earned that joy, hasn't earned that smile from her; he hasn't. Not after what he did. But his grim expression lightens maybe just a little bit. Her moods are infectious.

"Don't give me credit," he says. "You'd have come around to it in time. I'm quite certain." He shrugs, then, and passes the bottle back over. "Quite a jump, though. Princess to artist to spymistress. They'll make holovids about you, just you wait."