The attempted-rescue-turned-hover-hand is cute, and reminiscent of several friends Rose hasn't seen in years. "Not much," says Rose in response to the stranger's opening question. "You know how it is: one moment you're engaged in a divine struggle over the nature and continuance of reality, the next you're wandering through an anime-fetishist's wet-dream, mentally cataloguing the sheer breadth, depth, and length of phallic imagery on display."

She folds her arms as Noctis worries over the string. "Don't worry. The moment I saw those kites I knew something like this would happen. Even if I hadn't studied many long, dull hours under the tutelage of a dedicated manga-sage, the Red String of Fate is a popular sort of trope among aficianados of what historians once called 'lemon'--" Rose's eyes widen as she sees that Noctis hasn't waited for her monologue to finish before tugging at the string. "Wait, don't--"

The string yanks Rose's leg upward as she lets out a strangled sort of sound. The dropped string uses its leverage to forego subtlety: who has time for incidental contact and furtive glances? The next thing they know, Rose's tights-clad thigh is resting firmly in Noctis' palm. Fortunately Rose can still fly, so this position is more socially-awkward than physically-uncomfortable. Unfortunately, Rose's muscles are still somewhat atrophied from her unusual convalescence, and as much as she did not want, expect, or intend for them to be in this situation, she's a bit miffed that this stranger isn't getting the proper Lalonde Thigh experience.

Rose looks down at her thigh, caught in history's least-accurate handshake, then at Noctis. "...it seems we're destined to become acquainted. Why don't we start with the basics and see if we can earn some leeway? I'm Rose."