Allison can't, for the life of her, check the delightedly, conspiratorial smile that grows as he falls into step with her deadpan humor-threat and thread, with his agreement about the logistical nightmare of annoying real-world facts, and how no ones got the time for that kind of nonsense or taking care of people having agast opinions and weak-willed trauma reactions.

There's a shrug of those very bare shoulders and blase sort of impatient-patience that touches her expression even as she doesn't stop herself from saying the first thing that comes to mind this time either. "The men of Hollywood. Utter sweethearts with no clue how to get up the ladder, or irredeemable shits who see no one on it but themselves."

It's absolute hyperbole, but there's a larger core of truth to it, too.

Blithely, she adds. "I guess you're stuck with me now."

"Unless you are headed out soon."
Given his comment about the Governor.

She's too good at this for her good, even as she asks it, without a question, in the same conversational tone. There's an unflinchingness in not hiding from juggernauting those words out right after the first ones. Not clinging like a child to some stupid, desperate hope (that he might be, might stay, might just play along for even longer than two minutes), and not looking at the light to be able just to be prepared for whatever's coming after this moment she stole. He doesn't owe her anything.

(Not that it stops her wanting it all the same.
From hoping despite the brutal realism.)