Bastien's mouth rounds into an astonished O, captivated by her meal-skipping, but at the question it shifts into a smile that's small and bashful. And unguarded. A rare thing, here equally attributable to the subject matter and the fact that it's Athessa asking, with no one else to see.

"Good." He looks back down at her knuckles, taps his thumb against one of the more faded bruises, turns her hand over to consider her palm instead. Then he glances back up to rescue himself from being too much of a dweeb by doing a second draft of the response: wiggled eyebrows and a more ridiculously purred, "Très bien. I took my own advice and talked to him about some things—can you believe it? A human man, practicing what he preaches. I deserve a medal."