He opens his mouth to reply, hesitates, rethinks what he's going to say and smirks. “Why don't you make me?” There's more than one way to crack an egg, obviously, and one can't make an omelet without breaking a few of those.

Because he's well-aware of what he wants and (usually) he gets exactly that. Sizhui sits up, lifts himself onto the edge of the desk, careful to not displace any papers while leaning to place both hands on the chair's arms, mirth clear in his expression when he lessens the distance between them and asks in a sugar-sweet whisper, “Then what about dessert?”