Iria laughs, again, and pinches his elbow to hear him squawk.

(He does it so wonderfully.)

"I'm glad to be of service," she says, prim again, as they enter the conversation room. The table in here, already set with covers over the dishes to keep them warm, is too low to sit at comfortably with her wheel chair. She collapses the left armrest easily, and settles into one of the armchairs with Quatre's help.

Before he moves away, she grabs his left hand to stop him and smiles, uncertain and questioning.