There, pillowed on the crook of her bent arm, her head is tilted only fractionally in his direction. It's not a terribly flattering arrangement. Her chin has to tilt nearly all the way down to her chest to accommodate the angle of the pipe which, with a thoughtful hum like a low gravel scrape, she sets back into the corner of her mouth. After a few contemplative pulls from it, Fitcher raises her chin. The results of that languorous exhale are quickly swept away.

The sideways look she gives him after has a glimmer of fox slyness to it.

"Do you estimate I trust you, or have you just decided to accept ill-considered?"