It's good ink, actually. A lot of it, Harry can see the meaning in — maybe not the reason behind getting it, but enough of the connection that can be drawn between man and imagery. He lingers for a moment in the doorway, all crumpled up and watchful. Someone willing to make sure Matt's scrubbed clean of influence before too much longer, because if there's one thing Harry Dresden hates more than people who take advantage of the vulnerable, it's anything that fucks with any line of consent. Even wearing the friendly little half-smile like he has been, there's a tight watchfulness in his dark eyes while he's taking in tattoos and paint splatters on Matt.

The way he avoids matching the guy's eye, his own slipping off to the side whenever they nearly lock on — tearing aside the faint tug-behind-the-navel sensation of sinking into someone's soul unstoppably fast.

"You seem like a nice guy," he says instead, tucking his arms around his frame as he leans from bottom corner of the doorway into the top one, still half-leaning as he fills the whole empty space. Broad-shouldered, slender waist, long legs and fingers. "And I'm sorry I harshed the groove you had going. The," he wiggles his fingers at the paint, "fun. It's just that — I know human psychedelics, and supernatural psychedelics, and I know at least seven alchemical mixtures that could go into stuff like that to really fuck you up."

He bites into the scar that tears through his face, bottom and top lip alike, working at the chasm of it while his brow furrows: "Figure establishing a baseline between us starts with being squeaky clean. Magic on magic, no other unknown influences. It's been a long time since I was around anyone else like us."