His surprise doesn't translate to his expression, but Reaper's eyes zero in on the knife or whatever it is, nostrils flaring up like he's taking in a deep thoughtful breath. The man smells like GOAT, like Sarge. Violent but thankfully leashed on the "right side."

"We're pretending you didn't retract a knife into your hand?" All right, he can roll with that. For now. With a quick glance at his phone, he can answer, "'bout thirty minutes."

Reaper grabs the wheat ale, opens it up with the bottle opener like a civil person, and starts puttings it away with little care for savoring it.