Grif deems the task complete, and that means it's time to chill. He lies down on the furs and just lets out a long breath, enjoying that there is a place he can lie down. His eyes dart up at the treehouse ceiling thoughtfully, as if it has the capacity to be something grand instead of just the functional best they can do.

"No cathedral ceiling. I can't paint, so I'd have to be the model."

Then he shifts, pulling his body into a dramatic caricature of relaxation like he's part of a composition lying there on the floor. It's an easy joke. Nobody wants that, he's Grif. Can you imagine?