Des hums, not necessarily in sympathy, but in something that vaguely resembles agreement. His shoulders tick upward for a moment before he shoves his hands into his pockets. "Got to put your requests in earlier."

Then he drops himself into the offered seat, legs stretching out in front of him and resting the heel of one boot onto the toe of the other. Probably be good manners to take up less sidewalk-space, but it isn't really top priority at the moment.

"S'too bad, though," he replies. "Real good pastries if they stick to you."