[That slight brush against the nape of his neck sends small sparks of pain rushing through him, though they're small enough to go ignored-- the collar still hurts, it always hurts but it's a pain he's never been without and therefore barely notices. The little grope of his arm is more salient, though whether intentional or otherwise he's unable to discern. She'll find nothing much of note there, nothing to hint at his reserves of strength-- hard and lean, yes, but not well-muscled. There's no need for bulk, considering.

She settles against him easily, her weight a small thing, but there's something in the feel of her arm draped so innocently around his neck, the ready way she allows herself to be held that sets off something in his head, a juddering noise, and although the beast in his Spine is skulking and muted there are still the urges, the thoughts. He could so easily take hold of those thin arms and twist listen to them break snapsnap what a pretty noise and very faintly he shudders.

He takes a subtle breath, pushes the thoughts away. He's in control here (ha ha)]

I'm not sure. Perhaps, though if they do exist I doubt they're tropical anymore. I've heard there were four seasons once, but now the world - the one I hail from - is steeped in perpetual winter.

[Not that he knows much about that-- there is no weather underground.]