Birch considered the items Jacopo found, correctly reaching the conclusion they'd be in close quarters for the majority of their trip. Which was fine with her, of course, but would Jacopo feel the same? After all, their little moment had been just that - a moment - and now that they'd had space and time to consider, maybe things wouldn't feel as... natural? Birch was never one to force her company where it wasn't wanted, one of the primary reasons she and Cypress hadn't had their own little heart-to-heart yet, but now it seemed they didn't have any choice.

Birch sat back on her haunches for a moment, then gave a decisive nod. Jacopo may be a gardner, but he wasn't an outdoorsman like she was. It was up to her to take the lead, for now at least, and that meant getting them somewhere safe and comfortable where they could set up camp. From there they could start exploring the area, leaving the camp as a central safe spot to return to.

"Let's find a place to set up," she said aloud. "Then we can work on how to get home."

She hefted her pack and took the lead, pleased when a serene spot perfect for their needs appeared after a short trek. A small frown formed on her face, though, as she was met with unfamiliar mountains. Not home, not even close. But that was a concern for later, she reminded herself as he gaze settled on the sinking sun. Birch nodded at his question.

"I'm on it," she answered, moving in a semi-circle around the plain as she gathered sticks, moss, and larger fallen logs for the fire. A nagging tug at her instincts prevented her from delving further into the brush, always keeping Jacopo's familiar outline in her line of sight. Something... didn't feel right about this place. Not supernaturally so, but as if there were many more eyes in the surrounding area that one would expect, and some of them hungry. Birch wasn't necessarily afraid, she'd fought off plenty a Shamananimal with skill so surely ordinary animals would be a breeze, but she knew an injury out here - even a minor one - could be a death sentence.

She returned to a few times from her surveying trips, dropping off supplies - she wanted to have a steady pile to feed into the fire throughout the night; she wasn't sure why, but banking the fire entirely seemed like a bad idea. With the fire crackling merrily, supplies sorted, and the tent up, Birch set about making something to eat. Birch borrowed some drawstrings from the hoodies in the packs and got to work making snares; they had supplies enough to last awhile, but with no rescue in sight she wasn't content to let them be her only source of food. She looked up as Jacopo spoke, nimble fingers steady and quick as she met his gaze.

His expression was serious, his voice quiet, and Birch nodded a little in agreement. Yes, she'd expected this. Her heartbeat kicked up a little, unsure what was about to follow. Would he say it was a bad idea? That too much time had passed, and too much had changed? She could hardly blame him if he did, but...

Her head cocked slightly to the side as she studied Jacopo, as he continued. It wasn't wrong, what he was saying. There was a lot to be said for a connection one felt, but the truth was he was right. She'd shared with him tidbits of her past - not all, of course, as there hadn't been much time before... but some, at least. She'd wondered after the rest, of course. Wished she'd had more to tell Olive and the twins as they'd grown up. She'd never kept it from them, who Jacopo was or that he was Olive's father, and she'd shared with them some of their time together, but there hadn't been much, not really. She'd focused on the feelings, the reassurances that no matter where he was, she was sure he loved Olive, and for a long time that had been enough. Olive had figured out the rest without her.

Birch nodded gently at his words, understanding all too well now how it must have felt. For him so little time had passed, and for her, for the children... How strange it had to have been. She'd been dead for several years, come back to find her granddaughter born and her children aged; she could hardly imagine meeting a newborn one day and then so soon after meeting her as an adult, a baby with a baby.

Birch sat back against one of the rucksacks, setting aside a finished snare. She considered her words carefully, then in usual Birch fashion said simply: "Tell me." Her voice was gentle, prompting more than demanding, and her expression was open. There was no judgement here, no pressure, only an open ear and an open mind.