Ford's brow furrowed first at her frown and then at the beginning of her explanation. When she'd asked a moment ago she'd said she wanted to strike up a conversation with strangers, but getting them to agree to something made it sound as if she knew them after all. Particularly when she spoke of plans; Ford had never had a plan in mind when interacting with someone for the first time. The closest he'd come was probably when he'd had ulterior motives for his conversation with her (and, in fairness, with everyone else) back at the Flint Institute Soiree, but it was hardly as though he'd needed her to buy in on it first.

Then she continued, clarified, and the tension on his brow lifted. "Why wouldn't they like you?" he asked, then wondered with immediate panic if the question had been too quick and too earnest — if the subtext of I like you had hardly been subtext at all. "I mean," he continued, attempting to backtrack, "You have a lot of — hm, interesting opinions about things." He decided at this point that smoking was the lesser of two evils — he'd rather put a cigarette in his mouth than his foot — and took a hasty drag. He exhaled the smoke immediately, which was the only way he could keep from coughing. "I can't imagine anyone could dislike you, anyway. Unless they were jealous."

The last phrase had slipped out without a thought, and Ford could only stare at her for half a beat as he realized he'd likely dug himself deeper. He started to go for the cigarette again but found he couldn't stomach the idea with the taste of the smoke still so stark on his tongue, so instead he plunged ahead with another question to distract her: "Who is it you're trying to impress?"

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