She steps inside, informing him that yes, that's her people's traditional greeting, and that it always makes her smile when others say it back to her. 'It makes me think of home,' she tells him.

Once she's in the kitchen, she drops a careful and modest half-spoon of sugar into the tea, her spoon clinking against the side of the mug as she stirs it.

'I do prefer to have agreements in writing; it means there's no room for errors of memory on either side. I also-' her eyes flicker upwards, she looks at him directly instead of at her tea, 'don't need this to be a secret. The intimate specifics, yes, but not the fact of it. I'm not ashamed. It's a mutually beneficial contract. Shall we start with the easier part? Basic expectations? Consent for everything - on both sides. I'm not the sort of person who thinks that if I buy your time I can do whatever I want, yes?' She won't say what she thinks of those people, but her concerned, disapproving frown might speak for itself.