[Somewhat proud hues seem linked onto the form afore him. He has no reason to look away.]
That is the idea, pet.
Pet.
[He wrinkles his nose at that, as he leans on his toes a bit to put the apron back.]
Alright, sit. There’s a possibility that I want to come in your lap.
[And he’ll enjoy his view, because he can,of course; brows quirking a little, the familiar old smirk simply taking hold of his lips and twisting them once more.]
[He doesn’t even answer. He just, obediently, sits on the nearest stool.]
And here’s me believing you always wanted to do that. I’m hurt you’d only say of it now.