He tries not to look her way, tries to focus on his food—which honestly is the best he's had in a long time, smoky and greasy and hot. But he does—glancing up every so often, just to keep track—and when she whips out a fucking bow and aims it at his head, William drops his plate and lunges the the side. He's alert, present in a way he wasn't half a second ago, conscious of his heart and his breathing, the dampness of the air. The sound of the arrow burying itself in the chert. Angry, too—if Logan's here Ruth will be, and even if there weren't a blind person among their number, shooting off arrows at a picnic would still be dangerous and stupid.

It's his reaction he resents her for, for provoking what feels like an outburst even if all he does is pick up his bag and sling it over his shoulder.

“Thanks.” It's flirting with sarcasm, not quite there yet. His smile is more than sour enough to make up for it. “It's so hard to know the right time to leave a party.”