Beside her, the narrow slip of a man—he really is quite petite in every direction, though the shape of his clothes and the way he's presently holding his elbows and has planted his feet in defiance of the healing ship somewhat minimizes that impression while sitting—opens his mouth with the intent to discourage her.

And then he closes it. And pauses for a long moment, squeamishly considering the crushed hat between his hands, before making do with a sidelong look and the kind of single held up finger that translates to Don't in nearly every language.