[ It absolutely occurs to her in that small logical part of her mind that is always thinking ahead, weighing risks and reward and keeping track of how much time she has left (an anxiety that no longer has purpose really, as there is no deadline anymore. No need to move, and yet still she finds herself reaching for that non-existent tempad in moments of panic borne of a millenia on the run), as she watches the way he leans forward and takes a bite of the pastry, the food at the corner of his mouth, the way he tries to clear it; if that pull is this strong to take his face in her hands and kiss him until nothing else matters while in the relative public of this carriage, going into his apartment to bathe, alone, with him was probably a terrible idea.

A terrible idea due to his entanglements and her strange hesitation to solidify something when he had only part of the story of course, not because she thinks that if something happened that it would be terrible. No, it'd probably be the exact opposite, but something she really shouldn't be thinking about.

Sylvie reaches out and thumbs that distracting crumb free, fingertips running along the line of his jaw feather light as she tries to break that train of thought, her face purposely neutral. ]

You seem well traveled for such a short time here, and with the slowness of the modes of transport. I'd like to see those spots some day.