Lyra's always believed that she's got pretty stellar instincts, always listened to her gut when it told her things like when a date's going bad, when something 'bout scaffolding doesn't feel right, and it's worked out for her (mostly) these last twenty four years. It's a fairly solid underlying belief, not something easily changed, even when reminded of such things as yeah but you thought Apollo was great and faeries actually stole three months of your life and you literally nearly drank yourself to death.
Cuz yeah, they true, she ain't denying that, but also... usually she's fine? Things generally have a super strong tendency to work out alright, or even work out awesome. Like, faeries stole three months, but if that hadn't happened, she wouldn't have met Patrick, maybe not even Avery, so...
Rosario's own confession tugs hard at the crooked smile she's felt playing on her lips throughout, pulls it all down and chucks the last trace of any smile down the hill into the shadows. "Forreal?" she askes, but she doesn't need Rosario to confirm it any more than the tone in her voice and grip of her hand already confirms it. The shiver down her back isn't delicious anymore.
Cuz like... there's flirting with danger (sexy, exciting, fun) and then there's being dumb (none of the above) and Rosario's just redrawn the boundary between 'em. And with that, Lyra's gotta reassess a whole buncha things. Like, okay, she's actually in danger? "Okay, I get it, my survival instincts ain't shit hot... What's it doing, the bird, the me-crow?" she asks, watching Rosario's face in the failing moonlight. "Last time you said Patrick was there too, he still there?"
She says it with hope— nothing real bad's gonna happen if Patrick's there. What faery mischief's gonna be stronger than Saint Patrick. No faery gets a parade like he does. If he's there, in Rosario's vision, then surely, whatever happens, Lyra's gonna be fine, right?