fluttering your lashes like ashes and embers

This, all, was a mistake. If Alastor could properly have read Lotte's mind, this much he would have said. What he felt, instead, was waves of wanting rolling off her and into the long lines of his shadow bleeding through the cracks in the floor, reaching up into the cracks in the soles of her shoes, winding its way around the room. She longed, and wanted, and perhaps she never had with such focus, before. It could tell, without reading her mind.

Alastor chuckled. "Faith?" His eyes narrowed to a point that surpassed the realms of human ability, a harkening back to the strange physics his form possessed mere hours ago, a reminder that he was not what he appeared to be, no matter what shape currently cloaked him.

It was a rhetorical question, merely commentary. That Lotte should have faith in him was as laughable to Alastor as the idea that she should have faith in anything else beyond herself, religious or otherwise. It was silly, it was human. He loved it. His fingers curled possessively around his glass.

And he extended it to her while she spoke, waiting for her speech to end before he clinked his glass to hers. "To shaping," he agreed. "To unfettered wildness." He fixed her eyes with his and said, "So, drink!" And knocked back his own glass.