The weather is an odd excuse, and she casts a brief, dubious glance out at the overcast but nonthreatening sky. Fortunately, he doesn't need any prompting to finally admit the real issue. Greta relaxes a little, relieved that he's willing to address it.

"You look a little run down," she says, not unkindly. She's seen him in rough shape before, when he was shot in that dream, but that was different. More to the point, it wasn't real. Maybe it was only a matter of time before the realities of life in Manhattan started to weigh on him a little - before the relief of not having to deal with those awful people he'd been stuck with stopped outshining everything else. He'd seemed to adjust so easily compared to her, but... maybe they both got complacent.

"Sit," she urges, shepherding him over to the table and setting a cup of tea and some honey in front of him. She settles herself in the chair opposite a few moments later. After a cautious sip of her tea, she ventures, "Did something happen?" Something must have changed recently; even when they were dealing with their respective curses, he still looked all right.