Carlisle almost doesn't hear her, the constant chant of where are my glasses where are my glasses where are my glasses steadily rising in him like thunder of war drums, pressing him toward a battle with terror and his poor vision that he cannot ever hope to win. They're gone, he cries inwardly as he presses his hand to his inky eye, trying to curb the throbbing pain building behind it. They're gone, and I should have held my temper, but I didn't and now this woman is going to steal all my plants and turn them into weeds or whatever it was she was talking about before and I'll have to start over again maybe move the garden elsewhere if I'm lucky maybe she won't burn it down do I even know her name how am I supposed to tell anyone who did this if—

Her hand reaches toward him and into his line of sight, and he flinches, preparing for the worst... but there are his glasses in her hand, right as rain. His clear eye darts between the spectacles and Rosie's face before he finally takes them, his hands shaking has he slides them back onto his face.

"It... does suck," he replies with all the temerity (and understanding of slang) of a newborn lamb. "Wh- I'm sorry, why are you h- here again? I mean, thank you for- for my glasses, but er."

Forgive him, Rosie -- he doesn't know how to deal with people when he's like this, especially not those he hasn't exactly been kind to in the past, and certainly not those who show him kindness despite that.