[He won't flinch - not at her confessions, not at the steady eye gaze, and not even at the shirt tugging, no matter how red his face gets. He takes a breath, sitting up as straight as possible as his gaze falls down to her collerbone, at the scar, and then back to her face.]

Hold up a sec. You got murdered? ["How are you still standing?" He runs a hand through his hair, as if something'll come back to him to explain this--] Is this one of those witchy-magic kind of deals?

[Wait, wait.] Ooor you know what, I don't have to know. Not this time.