As she leaned in, Sitwell sat up straighter, telling himself not to lean back and keep his breathing casual. Luckily, she smelled kind of overwhelmingly like fruit, which would have been nice in general but he thought better of noting out loud how it effected his appetite. It seemed rude, the more he mulled it over. Also lucky, she was as smart as guessed and he didn't have to be the one to broach the subject, but for some reason anyone else saying it sounded kind of like an accusation that sent his face into contortions in some desperate bid to look completely normal. Obviously, that didn't really work out. Now he was albino pale, red-eyed and fanged and he had a weird facial tick.
"If-if you could, I mean-- This is already starting to sound like I expect this to be our relationship--" That was kind of a heavy word, and the hand Sitwell waved between them stopped stiffly and waved upward instead like he was saying something else-- what the heck could that mean? It was wafting more fruit smell his way anyway, so he tried to correct, "Or, not like. Mutual awareness. So, but-- Do you know who Anne Rice is?" Not only was that a terrible segue, it was a condescending question to ask anyone, never mind the person he expected to be the occult expert in his phone book, and Sitwell had to fight to maintain his expression of serious inquisition as though he was about to thoroughly enlighten her about widely popular literature.