[ She gives him a wry little sidelong look before tipping her own drink back. It's in her voice too, that wryness — and underneath that, something rueful and tired. Maybe even a bit sad. ]

No sense, sure. But that's all I've ever done. [ The corner of her mouth quirks up humorlessly. ] Always fight when I shouldn't. Can't help it. I'm an idiot and a romantic.

Besides. [ Again, she pours. ] I don't know how to do anything else.