When Cyril and Adasse cross into view, Sorrel is just sitting up, still clearly trying to shake off the last of his most recent nap. His shirt is askew, blankets equally mussed, and his hair shows evidence of his enforced bedrest as it is. He smiles for them, for Cyril, but that softer, shyer glance is all for Adasse.

"I think there might be some differences, yeah. But if I suddenly come up pregnant, then that would at least be a good story," The joke is a little slow coming, but if nothing else could prove Sorrel's wellbeing to Cyril, surely his terrible sense of humor should, "Ma serannas, anyways. Candy is candy, even if they don't make a difference. Between you and me, I think Beleth might be putting sleeping-draught in her antidotes; I'm getting kinda tired of being tired."

He would still drink it, of course; just because he makes fun of her, it doesn't change that he'll trust her with everything he is.

"Speaking of which, Adasse, is there any tea left? Or-- that was probably hours ago, sorry."