The girl regarded Dean dubiously after he leaned back to open the space between them, and tilted her wet red head with a ruminative pout to her full lips. Had she misconstrued the nature of the relationship between this man and the one downstairs? Probably not, given the activity in which Donovan was currently engaged. And it<em>did</em>sound like an active engagement.<br/><br/>Aza was a pretty good judge of the expansive gradient that was human sexuality, having spent most a lifetime experiencing its colorfully sliding scale, and she didn't think she'd labeled Dean wrongly. For him, that'd been an unnatural reaction to her reveal. Was he blushing? On the occasions her human shape had been needed, she happened to enjoy flouncing around the Spire's guards and pages, predicting who would become flustered or worse by her scarcely-dressed flirtations. Her guesses were rarely wrong, but Dean's appearance and very aura did not at all match his demeanor. Maybe he was bespelled, or some sort of celibate warrior monk, denying himself. Or just insane. Whichever it was, Aza absolutely adored hair, and Dean was entirely right that hers was lovely. And it was a perfect distraction from what she might have otherwise considered an unlikely rejection.<br/><br/>Her narrowed stare became appraising, sitting back to swing her feet to the floor and stand, then pushing his much taller, much harder figure towards the tub as if she was actually capable of physically displacing him without him being willing. "Hair first," she agreed readily, grabbing up another cake of soap, breaking off a corner, and tossing it into the running water to form yet more bubbles. Then she performed a quick rummage of the room's remaining contents to assemble an ivory comb and a few strips of leather, sighing as she thought of her own opulent bathing chambers and its collection of grooming tools and cosmetics and servants left behind. Nothing about this place suggested either man did much more than scarcely glance in the polished metal mirror, and then probably not even every day. Such oblivious creatures. At least the drow had something resembling a style, even if it was hopelessly militant and dry. All that ridiculous armor certainly made visible an awesomely athletic body, but did little to<em>display</em>it. Aza had never liked the drow aesthetic. Their architecture was discomforting and their decor was worse.<br/><br/><em>Anyway.</em>She set her thoughts back to Dean, having chased him into the tub. She perched on its lip, legs crossed at the knee, and leaned down to take his chin in one small hand for a better assessment of his sharp features and what would best emphasize them. That also happened to lend him his own fabulous assessment of her breasts, which, for her slender frame, were ample. "With your skin," she remarked, fingertips raking back through his dark, unruly strands, "you could go warmer. Black is stark, lifeless. More an umber, or mahogany, to bring color to the eyes..." She paused, the comb in one hand. "What is 'uncle?'" From that accent, the common tongue was not her first.