"You're a journalist." That made him eye her a bit warily. She seemed too ... cheerful for that kind of work, but maybe that was how she got the good stories in the first place. Either Rosalind was a master manipulator (and Fenris had enough life experience to pick those out) or an overachieving idealist. He surveyed the table—second cup of coffee, notepad with barely legible writing—and determined the latter suited her more than the former. It was a relief, at any rate.
While his surprise wasn't immediately clear on his face, Fenris shifted from foot to foot a little bit. People didn't want his company. Nobody who had been around him for more than five seconds, anyway. But Orana was making enthusiastic shooing gestures at him from behind the counter (traitor), and Rosalind had asked if he'd like to join her. That was ... new. And not unpleasant.
Fenris hesitated only a moment longer before he took the offered seat, his gaze on her notepad. "What are you working on?" It seemed like a safe enough topic. This is what people did, wasn't it? Small talk. He didn't even know anything beyond her name.