A terrible guest. [ —he corrects in a small bout of (half-hearted) protest, a twist of an apologetic smile upon his lips as meets Lapis' eyes (glancing down where she looks up), gold locked with gold until, ultimately, he relents with a light as air laugh; a shake of his head. And so: he sits with shoulders squared and his chest broad, his posture militant as though he hadn't any true idea of what the word 'relaxation' meant. ] Next time, I will be sure to bring a hostess gift.

[ But what would be appropriate? Something as vibrant, as warm as the space surrounding him, he thinks. Perhaps a tea blend, to be shared together on quieter days, or even nights like this one—where Lapis is stubborn, her hands placed squarely upon her hips (just as they had been, once upon a time, when she had been defiant of her parents, bold in a way which had surprised him), and he is happy to simply be beside her; to forget the word surrounding them, if only for a little while. ]

Your home, it reminds me of the way you sing. [ Silver lashes hooding over gold eyes, he looks to her with a soft, almost reverent, expression. ] Your voice is always vivid, colorful, and warm.

[ And that is the Lapis he has always known, despite her propensity to always fall at an even sort of calm. ]

Did you perform, earlier on in the night? I hope I did not wake you from sleep.