He only snorts at those fluttering eyes, satisfied that any damage is surface-level and probably just visually exacerbated by rain. The flattery, too, just makes him drop his chair back to all four feet with a thud, very close to rolling his eyes but too close to Mikoto's presence (anywhere in the village, really) to give in to the temptation.

"I only just made jounin, Ayane-baa-san," with the habitual literally years after Itachi did not so much unspoken as assumed present. "I'll have to start clearing out my spot in the basement at this rate."

His disappointment with himself is constant enough that it's a second skin, though, and not one so noticeable anymore as to stop his hunger. (The hunger has been almost comforting this month, actually. Apparently even soul-searching following a mission that drew his entire life's purpose into question can't kill his appetite.) He's already pulling the menu to his side of the table when her offer trails off, glancing over the pictures with avarice.

"If you're sure you want to cover me," he says, a last-chance offer to save her wallet that is at least twenty-five percent sincere.