Staring up at the ceiling, Quinn tried her best to breathe steadily. She was met with...middling success. It wasn't [i]as bad.[/i] But it was still pretty bad. "[color=ffe63d]N—no, It's...not the duel,[/color]" she bit out, doing her best to force her voice to come out evenly. She picked up the glass of water, swirling it momentarily before— [i]Have some water instead. How's that sound, sweetie?[/i] —Before her arm [i]jerked[/i] and she rammed it none-too-gently back onto the table where the rest of the salmon lay forgotten, staring wide-eyed at it like she'd seen a ghost. The water that had spilled over in her haste soaked into the tablecloth, and her already pale face went white as a sheet as she shrank back. "[color=ffe63d]Just—I—you—they—[/color]" She didn't know quite what to make of what was happening. Disoriented, confused, and hurting, she could only reach her hand up again to swipe the burgeoning tears out before they could spill over. How did she explain this? How could she possibly explain this? She didn't know. All she knew was that she was [i]ruining[/i] it. She forced herself to uncoil, sitting back down in a normal posture, though she was obviously [i]very[/i] tense. She was messing it all up. But for some reason Mona wasn't—wasn't mad at her. She didn't know why, but it made her just comfortable enough to find her voice. "[color=ffe63d]I mean—sorry. I'm s—sorry.[/color]" Another heavy swallow, trying to choke back the lump. "[color=ffe63d]It was—it was [i]home.[/i][/color]" An honest-to-goodness shiver passed through her body when she said the word, and she closed her eye again for a moment, like she couldn't bear to look. She was ruining it. She was ruining everything. Like she [i]always[/i] did. She looked down at her hand. It was shaking. Her whole [i]body[/i] was shaking, in a way it hadn't in [i]weeks.[/i] "[color=ffe63d]They—I don't—[i]please[/i]—[/color]" Then she dropped to a dead whisper, barely enough for Mona to hear, let alone anybody else. "[color=ffe63d]...Please. Don't—don't talk about—about home, or about—about—my—my fam—[i]my parents. Please. Don't. Please.[/i] I didn't—I couldn't say—[i]I'm sorry![/i][/color]" As hard as she tried, a thin trickle of tears was threading its way down from her eye. She hated it. She hated herself for it. All she had to do was [i]not do that,[/i] and she was messing it up. The taut tension started leaking from her voice, and she picked up a napkin from the table, dabbing her eye with it in a futile attempt to look like she wasn't one frayed thread from snapping. "[color=ffe63d]Just...please. Don't.[/color]"