[ By the definition of someone who's only had their own soft, round face to touch for centuries, probably. At the tail end of her drink and the tail end of his speech, she can't help a scoff of her own, though it's a jovial one, try as it might to be exasperated. But she can't quite quell the tip of her tongue as she waves off his blustering with a, ]

Oh, beep beep, will you.

[ It was something, as she understood it, that had crept onto her tongue the more she pried. Something like a lid, a stopper, a muzzle among friends when one such trashmouth ought to quit running. But she'll reach out and oblige him again, not with a slap, but a hand laid flat to the side of his face, fingers tracing the crinkles round his eyes, thumb brushing the dumb laugh lines around his lips, ]

Well perhaps if you would unclench that shit-eating grin once in a while, the world would realize how long it is.

[ With her hand still stationed, it finds the crook of his jaw, pulling him closer, tipping his chin to turn his attention to— ] Now shall we share this properly? [ —their glasses. ]