[ He just smirks all the more at her refusal – more in an effort to be as infuriating as possible than any real intent, on his part. Truth is, he has no intention of introducing that particular vice to her home, and doesn't think it would much suit her, besides.

... Though he does get a hoot out of the mental image.

He follows after her, as she expected he would – because what else can he do? He could leave, he supposes, wander off as he does sometimes, but he's content for now. Hasn't felt drained just yet, which happens on rare occasions when he's likely overstayed his welcome. Whatever he is, he doesn't know all his limits just yet; he's not sure when he'll know all of those, either.

Her question startles him out of his thoughts, though, and his step slows as he mulls it over. ]

... I'm— Maybe.

[ Uncertainly, slightly stilted. He doesn't know how far he wants to delve into this question. ]

Might be startin' to, now that the novelty's wearin' off.

[ Even with that brief answer, he already feels the sting of melancholy sinking in, like a hook in a fish's mouth. For a few seconds, he keeps his silence, thinking about the little things he'll never experience again, like the taste of warm beans or the burn of Tanglefoot or the feel of a gentle touch, of warm skin on skin—

He shakes himself, speeding up his step, and bowing his head a little as he walks.

Brusquely, ] Ain't nothin' can be done about it, though. No use thinkin' on it.