The crack of a smile in Jinn's normally stoic façade surfaced for a brief moment. Salim could be funny, and sweet for his attempts, even the unsuccessful ones. He could be quick to blame himself for the wrong things, as well.
"I would not test that theory," Jinn told him, meaning that he wished him not to. But Salim was his own man and he would do as he chose. It was what Jinn had wished for him to begin with.
He shook away the bitter sting of memory and past mistakes, and busied himself with cutlery. "As you are the one who died," he pointed out, sliding the butter dish out of the fridge and onto the counter for Salim to partake from, "you are the only authority on what is and isn't disrespectful. I have never experienced what you have. I have come close," recently, at that, "but you know more about death than I do. And about living, too." Jinn leaned against the nearest counter and folded his hands in front of him. "Nothing about being here is expected. That does not make it any less real. Or less precious."
This moment, for instance, would be treasured for as long as he could remember it. The thought of forgetting terrified him even more than being sent back to Wednesday. Although there would be a Salim waiting for him there, too, so perhaps it was not all bad.