She pauses, listening for a moment. American music. Of course. She sniffs, and fishes out a cigarette before diving in to do the dishes. It's quick work, really, even considering the spread she laid out.

She can feel the ache in his joints and his skin, and considers healing him. And then decides against it. After pulling a boneheaded move like that, if he wants healing, he can ask. (Besides, then he wouldn't need to stay for a week. And she's rather looking forward to that now. Not that she'd ever dare say that out loud.)

She returns to settle beside him, pack of smokes in one hand, glass of wine in the other.

"Better."