He listens to the measured step of her approach and quietly revels in the build of the anticipation. It's such a different experience being with her in this dwelling with all of the trappings of civilization around them and contrasting memory flashing through his mind like bright little motes: the sight of her in the bar, the negligible weight of her in his arm, the feeling of a heel pressing into his skin.

He hardly blinks upon her return, bold with how he watches her. When she sits, he neither shrinks away nor draws closer. Not yet. He weighs and measures the space between them, the flavor of it. He's sure it's not solely his imagination, the energy in the room.

There's the faintest curve of a smile for her correction, something knowing. "Unadulterated." He savors the word. It implies more than plain. "Thank you."