[Sharky knows first-hand how squirrelly things get when you're alone too long, and as nice as the cottage is, it's still essentially a very fancy doomsday bunker. Limited space, resources, and very little socialization to go around -- it's the perfect recipe for going lightly nuts.

The stare and comment earn a sort of awkward, bashful grin, as he scrubs the back of his head. He -- really wants to say the same thing. It'd be really easy to do, just, "yeah, me too," and see what happens. He could probably handle it. He'd probably even like it.

But the grin falters and he sorta just. Bobs his head.]

Y-yeah. Um. [Now it's his laugh that's awkward, like admitting a guilty secret.] Not gonna lie, man, I think somethin' got like. Hella broke coming back 'cos I'm. Just. Not... feeling it. With anyone. At all. [That feels terrible to admit. It feels... gross, not being horned up all the time. Which is weird. It should be the other way around, right?] I was literally sitting across from Crichton the hot tub, and I got more sauced over his fuckin' future guns than [mimes out the shapeliest of butts] and it's like. WHAT. The fuck. Is wrong with me.