[ Her pale complexion makes her flushed face all the more obvious, his smile settles somewhere between amusement and concern. It's a tug-o-war, difficult to settle on a single emotion at the moment but she had made a choice when he had a variety of beverages available. He would not admonish her, no, she is a reasonable and responsible adult, and that much he is aware of.

A few months apart, yet in an odd sense, there is a boundary. It's almost comical the more he considers it. She is an adult, he remains a child. Yet they're both trapped in this city where anything her hand can reach so can his.

Slowly he reaches for a mug of his own, hand hovering over a selection of alcoholic drinks but ultimately he settles on some tea. Not hot, not cold, tepid. Akin to his sentiment regarding this task of theirs.

He listens, he doesn't interject. He understands a joke when it comes from her (most of the time anyway). Presently, however, he wouldn't blame her if she wanted to drown away wariness, but their job is not done. A poem is recited, although he isn't certain if the reference made can truly allude to them at work. No. There is another poem that may be more suitable. ]

That is very well recited. But given our present situation. I believe there may be a more appropriate poem.

In her humble cottage, fragrant silks are things unknown.
She grieves that go-between refuse to help her,
for who would fall for homely skills and honesty?
Frugal dress and simple make-up gather only pity.

She can boast of agile fingers, clever with a needle,
but can’t compete with painting comely eyebrows.
More desperate every year, she embroiders golden thread
on bridal gowns for other girls to wear.