[Rationally, he knows he should refuse. Moreover, he should be through with fighting, should be so tired of it that he never wants to throw a punch again. But the Sanguis in him comes alive at the prospect of — what? Violence? A challenge? The adrenaline? — a fight, and he finds himself thinking: resist or indulge?

Resist. Resist. Resist. He shouldn't want to fight. He should be done with fighting.

But fighting — sparring, whatever — is a valid form of moonlacing, or so Jill had told him, and at the thought of it, he visibly shivers from the anticipation.]

I'm not fighting you if you're not up to it. To going all-out.

[He swallows, then stalks toward him, lupine in every step he takes.]

So we moonlace first. And then after. So we're both up to it.