She looks at him more steadily. Can't hurt to say it. Even if it is premature. Even if it might not be received well. Well, can't hurt more than they've both already been hurt.

"I mean, I'm just... guessing, here," she says, "that people back home aren't too happy with you." If her own reaction was anything to go by. "And I mean, it's kind of a shit situation to go back to, isn't it? I guess that isn't fair to say, but I dunno, I just..." She's getting lost here. She looks away, clears her throat awkwardly, pushing her free hand through her hair, adjusting her hijab with a distracted tug.

"If you wanted to," she says, "if we find a way to get home, um. You'd be welcome to come home with... with me." She wants to look at him, assess his reaction, but she can't. She stares fixedly at the table, fingers fidgeting with the label on the bottle. "You'd probably do well there. And I'd be - I'd be happy to have you there."

All right then. Time to drink more.