Greta had expected Sweeney to stop by, at the very least — she'd put out an offering the same as any other night, old habits and a wealth of surplus baked goods ensuring that she didn't forget (though, all things considered, she imagines he would have forgiven her if she had) — but she hadn't wanted to presume anything about how long he might stay, and the patrolling he's doing is an added relief. Their luck has held so far, but she knows how fickle luck can be, and she's been wielding her worry like a talisman all night. Any additional defense is more than welcome, and with so many of said defenses being invisible, the kind of visual deterrent an enormous bloody leprechaun might provide is better still.

But part of her is still sitting on worst case scenarios like a broody hen... which is why, when she first spots him on one of Regan's cameras, she about jumps out of her skin. In her defense, the night vision setting and the high angle distort what would otherwise be familiar, his hair color impossible to discern and his height, while obviously considerable, hard to measure. But then she recognizes him, and lets out a breath in a great whoosh.

Her heart is still pounding a bit as she makes her way, ill-advisedly, to the front door. She's not entirely sure if she wants to thank him, scold him for startling her (ridiculous), or beg him for whatever scraps of miserable information he might have gathered from any wandering he's done already. Regardless, she brings another offering: a freshly-opened bottle of beer, which she reasons could be drafted into a more violent sort of service if needs must.

She slips out onto the darkened front porch, closing the door softly behind her. "I should hope so," she murmurs, setting the beer on the railing for him.