His expression is neutral, with a lean toward inhospitable, and remains so until his gaze skirts sideways from the apparatus in his hands to see Jayce's fingers playing over that cuff. That cuff, which he so carefully cleaned, gently scraped the mud from its creases, polished and treated, and affixed to a wrist gone horribly slack. That cuff and its shattered stone, made whole again. His flinty edge dulls—softens, paradoxically, into a frown.

It's only brief, this oblique look, but their eyes do meet before it falls away.

As he returns to work on the mechanism, he doesn't say anything in reply—but the slowed movement of his hands leaves plenty of room in his attention for Jayce to occupy.