Viola presses back, hungry for the warmth, or the contact, or maybe the rosti. Who's to say? She crosses an arm over her chest to hold back her hair as she leans over his food, inspecting for bacon bits. It's impolite but she doesn't think Desmond will mind. She flicks her eyes up, still invading his meal's space, and asks, "Are you having a good time?" The question is genuine, even if she is a little preoccupied by his potato pancake.