It came quite as a surprise to Sorcha that this man seemed so nervous. In a city as cut throat as this one - then again, weren't all cities cut throat? - most men were suave or confident. If not stylish then they were artsy since that is what attracted many to such cities, the ability to start up businesses in almost anything since there were so many people in one place searching for specific things. It was endearing. She liked the way that he stuttered over himself and rambled on with questions in his nervousness, or the way he stared into her eyes as if digging as deep as he could for the truth. Most people didn't care to find the truth, they were more consumed with what was on the outside. The looks, the class, the money. All things that were well and good but did not equate to a good, honest person. She liked to think she was good, a healer of sorts, but in the end Sorcha knew that despite her trying she was still as selfish as the next person.

Things were switched between them because in any other event Sorcha might be the one scared she was about to get her throat slit or maybe raped before it. Of course, if a mortal attempted such a thing they might find themselves in a stunning surprise. That was the thing about being a witch, she supposed. It gave one more confidence because they knew they had something to fall back on in a sticky situation. While she couldn't sense what other supernaturals were she was pretty keen on the idea that Booker was a mortal - if he was anything else then he would never have been on his knees in a dirty alley with kids jeering at him. It rankled, still, that those kids had not really learned a lesson. What other unfortunates had to suffer their degradation?

She glances at him with a half smile, not quite sure if he is being serious or not about his compliment. She didn't mind artsy but she wasn't quite sure she would classify it as such. Still, it was homey and that is all she needed. A place to relax after a long day of selling and cajoling. While she wasn't really able to keep pets only a week prior she had found a kitten crying inconsolably at the steps of her complex, wet from recent rains and malnourished, and thus a sudden cry grabs her attention. A gray tabby kitten leaps from her bed where it had hidden itself in some cover, a nest of sorts, and races to her feet then to Booker's, rubbing with an obnoxiously loud purr for it's minute size. She grins suddenly, leaning down to rub a fond hand across it's small back and tickle behind it's ears. "Meet Darwin, the newest member to my household. I have a thing for strays, you see," she says saucily in a pointed jest towards Booker at his question.

He takes off his coat and bag and sets them on her coffee table, looking sheepish at the amount of water that is still over them and himself, but she isn't concerned. Water dried and this furniture was of no consequence. It was all thrift-store bought anyways. "I am a healer of sorts," she says nonchalantly, walking towards the only place in the studio that IS separated by walls - her bathroom, where she begins to dig through a cabinet to pull out gauze, neosporin, and some peroxide. The moment she steps out is when she sees him standing, looking quite uncertain, and she laughs. She can't help it - she isn't laughing at him, per say, but he was pretty cute with that nervous flare going on.

"I'm not going to kill you, you know," she points out, holding the tube of neosporin at him like a finger before setting it all down on the coffee table. "But if you it makes you more comfortable, be my guest. The drinks are on the bottom shelf of the fridge. I have regular beer but I also have some other stuff. Not sure what I grabbed, to be honest." And truly, who knew what was in there? She had been too exhausted that day to care, grabbing the first things she had come across and purchasing them without notice. While he gets the drinks - if he didn't run straight out the door, which she thought likely - she sweeps towards her dressers, pulling out some towels she had set aside and an overlarge shirt that she often used as a nightshirt, the material a thick black cotton with a small logo from a local plant nursery. Maybe she should wait until he had a bit of a drink before suggesting he change, she figures with a secret grin. If she demanded he change into her shirt now he might just flee. Was he a virgin? The thought makes her giggle suddenly, although she lifts a hand to stifle it as she turns back around with dancing eyes. "So Booker, what do you do for a living?" Small talk - it was supposed to help with nerves. So she heard, anyways.