[ It's still different, she wants to say. Wants to point out the gulf between the value of doing a good thing and doing the right thing, between helping one person you care about and helping dozens, hundreds, thousands of strangers. (And there's no room for him to downplay the number, either; the Blue Beetle is a well-beloved hero for a reason.) To say something like, of course, anybody would want to do both, or of course we're friends, or, I can tell which one you consider first.

She doesn't manage to say any of those things. She moves to speak, even, but there's no sound in the air, no statements forming in the space between her lungs and her lips. Her mouth purses and, flustered, she turns her gaze elsewhere. It's not even arguing, what she'd mean to say, but it's hard to come up with anything to knock against ... pretty much any part of that.

Jeez. ]

... You're important to me, too.

[ It's a quiet echo, made softer by her averted gaze and the volume of the venue — it's a small miracle if he can hear her at all. Jeez. One little I want to look out for you and she's this overwhelmed? It's not even new information. Obviously he wants to — that's where this whole mess of a detour started. ]

I... guess. I'm... not used to that. I'm more, um, usually someone people try to help because they have to. Or, like it's their responsibility. Or it seems like the right thing to do. [ Obligation. Necessity. ] ... Not every time, but enough, that... this kind of thing is different, for me.

... Sorry. If I'm making a big deal out of nothing.