[ he wants to tell her that he can be persuasive when he wants to be—the man that allegedly took some part in the Poyais scheme that lured many out of their riches and to their deaths—but he's faced with a more pressing crisis. she's beginning to react and the odds don't look like they're playing out in his favor until they shift at the last possible moment and allow him to inhale and exhale again. she has his undivided attention with her hand curled in his vest, pinning him in place just in time to feel her gaze burning into him when she looks him over. ]

One step at a time, [ he informs her understandingly. ] I'll guide you back to the land of respectable jokes, if you find you simply can't resist.

[ Dyson pushes away from the bar, stops leaning against it so that he can step directly in front of her at full height. she has every invitation to keep her hands on him, to touch and take and taste as she likes — if she wants to — and he can't have her thinking now that she's called him out that he can't live up to the hype. all things being equal, his hands should probably be somewhere harmless, like cupping her cheek or tucking her hair behind her ear. but he doesn't want to behave, nor is he interested in playing it safe.

if she doesn't stop him, he's going to slide his arm around the small of her back and place his hand square in the middle of it to drag her closer to him. he wants to kiss her but he's not willing to sacrifice the momentum of their conversation, not yet, even as he's watching her mouth pretty intently. ] Then I'd refer to a time-honored tradition and ask: your place or mine?

Unless you'd rather be dancing.