There are two options that she ponders, for the very briefest of moments. One is to show him exactly where he can put his cheese and probably cause some sort of food war in the process. The second is what Fortescue, smirking back at him, decides to follow through with. She drops her arms, curtsies, and then turns on the heat to the skillet on the stove.

"Thank you for grating my cheese, Socks," she says primly, making a small show of leaning up and kissing his cheek, like a performer milking every second of their onstage time.

Their cheese, but, well. It has some cooking before it gets to that stage.

Then she pokes his cheek with an index finger. "I see you know one of those catalogue poses."

Namely, the models who look smug.