[ The way her heart skips— he's attuned to it, of course, as a creature whose very existence relies upon tapping into the pulses of others, but it's a first that he should find it cute. The temptation to pursue it strikes him almost immediately, visible only in a quick blink before he swallows it, lets it past. It's a genuine reaction, he thinks, a genuine want, but he doesn't fully trust his own heart (a curse, a mark he'd once thought indelible), and besides, though they may not exactly have all the time in the world, they have at least a little of it. ]

It has. I don't think I'd be able to forget it all even if I tried.

[ He turns his hand over, his open palm facing up — more territory to explore, should she so wish. (Trust, in the way there's no tension in his long fingers, no urge to close them into a fist or flinch away, and, on top of that, almost a confirmation to himself that he can be so open. It's hard for him to put out of mind the last time he'd felt anything close, the last time he'd tried to spare a soul from Cazador's grasp, and spent an entire year confined to a tomb as a result.) ]

In fact, I've hardly been able to think of anything else but you.

[ An answer delivered in his usual language, but distinguished by his tone: startled, almost, rather than seductive, and missing the usual pet name he'd typically append to such a thought. They've spoken enough that he knows her wording isn't incidental, and this is something of a gift in return; an acknowledgment of her importance to him in exchange for her willingness to forgo it. He opens his mouth to speak again, seems to think better of it— then speaks, anyway. ]

I— like it.

[ It's the simplest possible nod at the fact at the notion that such a thing wasn't guaranteed, or that it's difficult for him at all — and exposing in its own way, as well. To wit, much more breezily than he means it: ]

Isn't that strange? I wasn't sure I was capable of it.