The blouse is made of a material she's sure she's never felt before and she rubs it between her fingers curiously, distracted for a brief moment. She looks up at the sound of his voice, the light steps down the stairs, and can't help the smirk that curls up the corner of her lips.

"My alcohol is mouthwash and I think I might be dying," she says, managing just enough sarcasm to to make it sound like she might be exaggerating. If she was wearing a shirt maybe she could have pulled it off. The exaggeration, anyway, she'd probably leave her shirt where it was unless taking it off would make the steel drum band in her head take a gods-blessed break. Apparently not.