[That coaxes the tiniest of smiles out of them, for half a minute, despite the closed-off impassivity of their default expression. They think, because they can't help thinking, of fogged-up windows and red polyester booths and burned tongues and the taste of hot chocolate - Asriel's warm fuzzy paw obliterating the shape their fingers left on the breath-warmed glass, a wobbly quartet of letters that sent him giggling, "You can't write 'fart' on the windows!"]
no subject
[That coaxes the tiniest of smiles out of them, for half a minute, despite the closed-off impassivity of their default expression. They think, because they can't help thinking, of fogged-up windows and red polyester booths and burned tongues and the taste of hot chocolate - Asriel's warm fuzzy paw obliterating the shape their fingers left on the breath-warmed glass, a wobbly quartet of letters that sent him giggling, "You can't write 'fart' on the windows!"]
[Their throat goes tight for a moment.]
[And then eases.]
Chocolate?