[There's a twitch at the corners of his mouth in response, the faintest smile for her gentle mockery.]

I have been accused of somber thoughts.

[By many people, certainly by her. Too serious and too pessimistic, but to fail to prepare for the worst was to walk into a fool's trap. His fingers shift idly against her palm as he picks up his own glass. He answers her toast a moment behind her, slow to catch on. It wasn't quite- right, but she remembered far more than he had expected her to. Not because he thought her forgetful, but because he recognized the formality- the structure- was excessive. That she remembered- there was honor in that. The melancholy wash of her thoughts across his fail to strip that feeling away, even as he takes in the honeyed scent, takes a sip and allows it to settle high and sweet on his tongue.]

I am afraid even you cannot see the future so sure as that, my love.

[There's a suggestion there- of a joke, if a frail one. As if he wasn't equally confident in his own beliefs- as if her words weren't what he would rather believe. He is not reluctant to remove his hand from hers as he again reaches for the kettle- both hands needed for the proper pour.]

Perhaps you would prefer to tell a more cheerful story?