She doesn't make it official, but neither does she reject his suggestion. Instead, she toys with him, cracking her own small joke in response to his, and strangely, he is comforted by this, sensing that her coyness has nothing to do with how she feels about the prospect of staying here. He stays quiet while she talks, and his expression is deep and thoughtful for a short while even after she has finished. It strikes him then that this is the most he has heard her speak.

He considers the idea of her mother being a cripple, chewing on his bottom lip and letting his eyes stray across the moonlit sands while he does so. Sova hasn't specified what sort of disability her mother had. Briefly he considers offering her his condolences, but when his eyes return to consider her, he decides against it. She has his respect; she doesn't need his pity, nor does he sense that she desires it.

"My story is similar, actually," he begins slowly. "I was born here - well, on Atlantis technically - and when my parents passed away I left. I spent a year on the continent... enjoying my 'vacation'. Then I came back. Now I'm here." He smiles sheepishly at her, knowing she'll no doubt sense that his tale is just as abridged as hers had been. There is plenty of time for elaboration, he reassures himself, and hopes that she feels the same.

"By the way," he adds as an afterthought, and a flicker of dark solemnity - something akin to shame or guilt - flickers across his features. "I'm sorry I was such an ass in the commons. I was... not in the greatest of moods that day." He eyes her carefully, though part of him feels this apology is redundant. She had, after all, somehow seen past his 'broken' exterior and followed him back here to take him up on his offer, however coarsely postulated it had been.