"Not too much for me," Raff told her; it was a dream, honestly, hearing her voice talking to him after wondering about it for as long as he had.
It wasn't creepy—really! It wasn't. Or maybe it didn't matter if it was creepy as long as Raff didn't push any of all of that onto her as some sort of expectation. He might have been literally a fucking antique but he was still a modern sort of guy. He changed with the times. A woman didn't owe him anything just because he thought she was probably the most wonderful thing he'd come across in a few decades of living. She was a ray of fucking sunshine and it had been so long since he'd been able to feel one without burning.
Then, just in case that had come across as creepier than he'd intended it to (which was not at all), he clarified, "I'm not the best one to ask though. Mum always said I was born talkin' an' haven't shut my goddamn mouth since. Paraphrasin', of course, mum was a saint and she'd weep if she heard me takin' the Lord's name in vain. Only got worse after I was dead and my audience got a hell of a lot more limited. The yapping, that is. The blasphemin', too."
And that'd probably solve any doubts she might have had about whether he was lying about the whole talking too much bit to make her feel better.
"An' yeah, I've seen your niece. Cute little button. Never cared much for babies but she's not so bad, for one. Have to say, though, you're a damn sight more pleasant than that brother of yours is. Anyone ever warn him his face might freeze like that?" Raff wasn't going to be the one to do it, in any case. Back to that thing about wanting to keep his job a bit longer.