More than anything

"Of course," Greta says with a brief, understanding smile. "And thank you." She isn't especially thirsty, but she supposes she ought to have something -- otherwise she'll just be staring at him the whole time, as if it's some sort of interrogation.

She fetches a cup out of the dish drainer and helps herself to some juice, then takes in the apartment while she waits. It's not that it's less tidy than hers -- she can see the work that's been put into making sure the baby can't get into anything dangerous, even if she tries -- but it's clearly more lived-in, with a greater accumulation of stuff. She's been avoiding that, a little. She has everything she needs, of course, but hasn't much extra. Her apartment still has an inn-like feel to it, a space she keeps in good order but hasn't really made homey. Doing so would've felt presumptuous. Or like giving up.

Not that she'd ever say as much. When Jesse reemerges, she instead offers a wry, "You've certainly made the place safe for babies."