Firefly Ravine fifteen states [m]

her words leave her lips like spun gold; honeyed even with the accent they carry. beneath the haze of the spell her scent and nearing proximity casts upon him, there lingers enough logic for him to let out a contemplative humming rumble.

whether the closing of distance was her or his own doing, velaryon is no longer sure; but she does not appear to spurn his advance and so long as she does not he knows he will not stop.

in what way did she mean those words, spoken with such surety? ...more importantly: did he care?

no. not truly. not in this moment at least. not as her scent and her presence engulfs him, drawing him towards her as if her scent alone is his own personal sirensong.

is that so? he rumbles, now close enough that he could touch her — or her, him.