Don't call me Pry.

[He jerks his head back as Richie reaches out, but somehow his hand doesn't get caught in the recoil. Fingertips touch. There's no Freaky-Friday jolt of primal magic shoving his senses back where they should be, just a moment held too long before he snaps his hand away too, splaying it palm out across his collarbone.]

What am I doing here? Oh, the can-can every night at Mme Le Roux. [This is an insanity he shouldn't be indulging, and yet he stares at Richie anyway, just in case there is some detail to his features that might click and explain this behavior. In case it clicks and explains the unsettled feeling in his stomach.] I live here. I have a job. A husband, and a coat. If we screwed sometime in the dim and distant past and I left in a hurry then I'm sorry but -

[Left his coat on the floor. There have been faceless people whose floors probably retained one item of clothing or another, but he'd remember, surely he'd remember -

Look, he's been instructed, so he looks long and hard. And shakes his head.]

There's nothing.