"Tried to be decent about the sugar, but, well. Now I don't have to get fussed at over it killing me, now do I?" Jon jokes. At the question, his sip turns into polishing of the last half of the glass, a nervous tension giving him a sobering moment.

Right. He's not where he's supposed to be - in fact, he's intruding.

He clears his own throat, a bit awkward, and stands, shuffling the blanket carefully off his shoulders. "Ah--- I am, yes, sorry. I should... probably head home, before the post-death exhaustion hits me again."

There's a distinct note of reluctance; something weighing at the edge of his mind, lacking the push to say it.