"It's," he's going to say ironic, but all that comes out is a gently affirmative, "Mm." Another drink disguises the need to swallow around that lump of uncertainty in his throat. Whatever make the wine is, it's warming, at least enough to be blamed for that very faint flush across his cheeks. He shouldn't be this easily lost, no matter how mixed the signals might be.

Running his tongue across wine-stained lips, he looks back down at her from under his lashes, curious and unsure.

"Hi," he murmurs, soft, and lets the question of what she's doing sit obvious but unsaid. The explanation of what she wants is going to have to come from her side. Understanding her isn't always his strong point. Giving in, he's far better at.