Anna flutters her eyes down; it's not coquetteish, particularly, not affected or designed enough, but she's got enough warm blood in her to blush, at least right now. "You're staring," she murmurs, and incongruously thinks of soldiers.
When they told stories about the demons in Mystic Falls, no one connected those to the ones that took place on battlefields further away, spreading out beyond the periphery of what touched their town during the war. In those bloody times tales of ghosts were common, and women whose lives (or lack thereof) intersected with all that death, each senseless glut of lost life more so. Her mother was both, moving in her long lithe shape through the wounded bringing night to the dying and life back in tall glass bottles. They could live for months on the remains of one skirmish; neither of them ever really needed much.
It's what the towel reminds her of, that refusal to bite down on anything except his own teeth. Soldiers as young as she was (younger, by decades), white-faced and sober and unsteady, and by the time she emerges from the fridge, if Seth's glances stayed too long or ran too close, she's forgotten about it, or at least can look that way.
"I can tell," she teases, mock-somber, and uses the glass she didn't bother with for orange juice. "Jesus," she remarks with a casualness that certainly speaks to the fact that her own beliefs are certainly nothing like Pentecostal, "it's like rubbing alcohol. Did you bribe a guy in the liquor store parking lot? You did, didn't you."