The cigarette still napped between his fingers lazily awaiting ignition. The honesty was that he hadn't really wanted it to begin with--he stole it to make a point--and thus as he stared at her hands, puzzled by the question she'd asked, though never hesitating to riposte, he'd handed it back to her.
"I heard a little something about you." He'd said, though the statement perverted the truth by how he wolfishly grinned. "I heard that you were lingering in the hallways like vanilla hookah smoke, a gloomy but vigorous gypsy, terribly weary of the world, and praying for someone to come and save you."
A fleeting act of opening up his arms and shrugging, oh, you. "Prayer answered."
Wait a minute, she was readily handing him a cornucopia o' plenty filled with various, succulent ways to be a complete trickster jerk.