Cerulean Cape don't leave me drowning in your Sunday rain

Assured that is really is her, his expression relaxes back into a more usual fare, still warm. She doesn't smell like he remembers. That sticks out to him, though he can get hints of it -- what he can remember -- here or there. A soft, pleased rumble escapes him as she touches him and says his name. "Grayday said you'd left," he says, no accusation in his tone -- merely a comment, the way one would remark on the weather. Étoille does not begrudge her in the slightest, after all. "I am glad to see you again," he adds to this  effect, pulling back just slightly to get a better look at her.

She's so similar and yet so different -- like he must be. His nearblack eyes shift across her form, observing new scars, the new ways the lines of her body wrap. He remembers his scars and feels briefly anxious, even ashamed that he is less handsome than he used to be (for his vanity makes him keenly aware of this fact). Will she still like him? Or will this be another of their chance encounters before she vanishes back on the mist, a recurring ghost in his life? He hopes not, but there is little he could do to cage her. So he cannot dwell on it. Instead he sighs, offering a faint smile, and repeats, "I am glad."