It makes his heart skip a beat. If only she knew. He's thinking of the first time he met her, he'd brought her food - a welcome basket. The parallels are stacking up. She'd grabbed him by the throat, ready to kill him for his kindness. He's still not sure what she saw in his eyes that made her stop.

"Yeah." He's seen worse, too. Even the Wendigo, the worst creature in this place by far, could die. That's better than the monsters he'd had in Reims. They can die, too, even if it's only temporary. It lends comfort it shouldn't, maybe, as does her familiar face.

He tosses the potatoes and greens in to roast with the meat, salting and peppering everything and leaning back to watch it cook. A compelling reason? To stick around him? He's got plenty of the opposite, that's for sure.

"Dogs." That's about all he's got. "And food." Hospitality is a dying art, after all.