He nodded with a soft chuckle at her warning. The supply of whiskey was plentiful in this camp (what was it with magizoologists and their love of the drink?) but to retrieve another bottle would mean waking half the camp. Beau didn't think he had one in his tent either, which was unfortunate. He'd likely only get just about tipsy if they shared the bottle equally. Better than nothing, he supposed.

Eavan was flawless. Perhaps not physically — the visible scars were a deterrent for some lesser men — but certainly in every other regard. To think she thought herself anything less only piqued his curiosity. After all, if she in all her Irish glory thought she was anything other than perfect what hope wss there for him?

"And what is yours?" He asked curiously, an eyebrow raised. Beau took a much shorter sip of the bottle and passed it back to her.