There's a flicker of something inside, like movement out just out of the corner of a dark, cobweb-filled room. Approval? Something else? He studies the feeling for a moment, almost as if he wishes to place it under a microscope, and then nods. If she simply sat down and tucked in, he would've been...disappointed, he thinks, might be the word.

He sits down, pulling the tray closer. Taking the spoon, he samples each portion: most of it seems to be in a halfway point between a liquid and a solid, and the taste is bland. He finishes it with a bite from the slab of something that might've been aiming for bread, but has been condensed into a hard tack. It immediately dries out his mouth, feeling like it soaks up his saliva. He chews, swallows. Washes down the tack with water and relief floods him at the simple pleasure of erasing the meal from his mouth.

Waits a few minutes and then pushes the plate back toward Natalia. (He'll remain sitting right where he is if she wants to continue monitoring him for any side effects).

"You should do something about your hair," he remarks suddenly, taking in the bright fire orange that had drawn his attention the first time he met Natalia. Or the first time he remembers meeting her. Maybe there had been several first meetings. "It stands out."