Daisuke paused, last few mouthfuls of his meal stewing in the bottom of his bowl as he sat there before Souma's room. The dark, threatening glower that dominated his features lightened not a bit in the wake of Demidova's smile, nor from her shimmering words. The list of people the Fist was happy to see was a small one, and the one of people he'd rather never see again growing longer every day.

Galina had the rare distinction of standing near the top of one of those lists. Which one was likely easy to guess.

But where Demidova was concerned, his hands were tied. Her family had been a thorn in his Boss' side up until the night his home had burned. Before then, he doubted she or her kin would have dared skip so gaily up to him. To do so would have been a declaration of war, one which would have ended in death without the chance of compromise.

Before then, that might have been the case. But Souma -and therefore, his Fist- had more pressing concerns now. And so Daisuke met Demidova's cheerful eyes with his own steady gaze, chopsticks lowering to rest on the edge of his bowl. 

"Apologies..." Inclining his head slightly in respect to the woman before him, Daisuke proceeded to down the rest of his bowl in a single, drawn-out slurp. Leaving the now-empty bowl on the ground with his chopsticks, he rose to full height. "No more left."

Eyes never leaving Demidova's own, one hand raised itself to quickly rap against the door behind him, before lowering to push it gently open. To dark to see much beyond the simple mats of the floor, but the faint sound of someone eating could be heard if one listened hard enough.

"Inside. Demidova..." Daisuke's voice rose, and, while it would be hard to notice, the sounds of eating paused. The words were as much for Demidova as they were for his Boss inside, who now knew precisely who was about to enter. "Boss is waiting."

And indeed, Souma would be. Behind a low table positioned in the center of an otherwise-sparse room, the bed he had spent so much time resting in before at his back. His meal remained spread out across the table, though he lowered his own chopsticks in anticipation of his guest. Ramen with pork, white rice, grilled eel, and a clay jar of gently-steaming sake were arrayed before him, a wealthy meal standing at odds with the surroundings. 

And Souma himself, in a grey robe of simple cotton, kneeling contently behind it all. Unlike his fist, no suspicious glower hung over his features as he waited for Galina to approach. No, merely patient curiosity, to wonder what brought the woman he had nearly killed -who had nearly killed him- openly approaching his hidden enclave.