There's something indescribably weird about hearing her say his name like that. Looking at her, knowing her, knowing that she's supposed to know more about him than almost anybody else on their current freakin' planet out there, but the way she shapes the word hits more like she's feeling it out on her tongue for the first time. Weighing, assessing; not necessarily finding it wanting, but still lacking the concrete surety he'd have expected to hear. It doesn't feel conclusive, and he couldn't put into words exactly why that is, what it means, or how he feels about it, even if somebody held a damn gun to his head.

He does what he does with all complicated feelings he can't immediately unpack in the moment: he shoves it aside to think on later (with no signed commitments on actually getting back to it), and focuses on the here and now. The next, more immediate question.

"Because this ain't my first rodeo," he says, and it sounds a little more relaxed, or relieved. Like he's being a little less careful, less concerned about whether or not he's gonna have to prove himself to her. He's not completely convinced the ice isn't thin, but it feels sturdy enough to walk on for now. "I've been through this whole song and dance a few times now. You, on the other hand? First trip. Congratulations, welcome to Imaginationland."