The watermelon rind he'd been nibbling on while watching her work gets tossed into the empty bags - it'll serve for debris until they can find where the trashcans have gotten hidden.
"Is delicious." He notes, and... it's silly, really. Standing in a kitchen serving up food from take-away boxes should not make him ridiculously happy.

But knowing that doesn't do anything to dim that ember of contented joy, with her leaning against his shoulder, in some place that feels less anonymous and cold than a hotel room, and the foundations of something that could be very fantastic indeed.

We'll blame it on the peanut slaw. It's pretty good stuff.