She almost says that it's all the same to her, because it's true. Nothing tastes particularly good to her, these days; she eats and drinks because she must, and not because she enjoys it. But such an answer would be concerning at worst and unhelpful at best, so she says, "I think there's some mint in there somewhere." Probably near the front, in fact; she's been drinking more of that than usual, lately. It's easy to stomach.

She ought to offer food, but she's not sure if she can do that without her own lack of appetite stealing the show. Instead, she methodically tucks her groceries away, watching the Iron Bull out of the corner of her eye. He seems too big for the apartment, but he's also plainly used to such close quarters. He's able to putter about without knocking his horns against anything. She supposes it makes sense. There might be different apartment layouts between the buildings, but overall, the size is about equal. He'd probably have to look elsewhere for vaulted ceilings and extra-wide doorways.

She also can't help but note how easily he maneuvers despite his leg brace and eyepatch -- though he's probably had even longer to get used to those. "Is spywork normally so... injurious?" she asks, a bit hesitantly. He'd outright invited her to ask probing questions, and she'd rather take him up on that offer than share her own sob story. Still feels a bit rude, though, despite her curiosity.