She’s flustered after losing traction in their introductions and starts to stumble over her responses with the most alluring shade of rose coming up to heat her cheeks; Gabriel doesn’t believe he’s ever seen anything so lovely in all his life. It’s like seeing the full spectrum of color for the first time and never realizing he’d been colorblind up till this moment.

He watches her, graciously giving her a moment to collect herself and try again. “Good,” is all he says, eyes crinkling in another grin. “That’s good.”

He’s careful not to specify whether it’s the fact of her enjoying herself or the very relevant information that the irritatingly handsome man is not her beau. He cannot in good conscience say it’s not the correct response for both revelations. And while she doesn’t flat out deny the existence of any paramour, he takes the denial with a small grain of hope. At least he won’t have to compete with that.

She’s recovered and gives him back her full attention and the grain replicates into a small handful.

“Oh yeah? Well I apologize, that’s on me. If I had found you sooner, I would have made a go for it long before now,” he promises, matching her gulp of liquid courage and wondering if it’s in poor taste to immediately reach for another to follow it.

Gabriel falters, the pins and needles of anxiety starting to hook into the back of his throat, tugging his pulse a hair’s breadth out of rhythm. Her gown and manner of speech are now suggesting she’s incredibly out of his league and he’s alarmingly aware of his lack of etiquette and the suddenly-itchy quality of his suit. Perhaps he’s just committed some grievous offense with his imputant flirtation, and does a quick scan of the courtyard, half waiting for soldiers to burst forth from the hedges. He feels the rest of his bravado begin to ebb and it’s desperation to regain his composure that has him lunging for another glass of punch and shotgunning it straight back. Etiquette be damned.

He nearly spews the last dregs of the drink all over the table as she hits him with the unexpected line. As it is, he just manages to choke it back at the last second with a hand over his mouth, sinuses burning as he thumps on his chest, coughing.

Then she laughs.

Some queer hybrid of melodic and shrill, wheezy and unmeasured in the way that has to be genuine, it has her nose scrunching up adorably. Makes her glow with an internal, otherworldly kind of light. Makes her simultaneously more gorgeous and more approachable at the same time. It goes on longer than the joke should fuel, peals loudly around them, Gabriel’s eyebrows vanishing up into his hairline as she snorts and collapses in on herself in a joyous fit. He makes a half motion to touch at her arm, offering a brace, but he never quite makes it all the way there.

He can only stare, heart stuttering to a halt, leaving him open-mouth gaping as he watches her come uncomposed for the first time.

He’s smitten.

“N-no, it was perfect.” She’s perfect. “But please, feel free to practice on me anytime.”

He’s never been so sure of anything - if he doesn’t jump in with both feet right now, he’s going to regret it for the rest of his long days.

His much larger hand envelopes her smaller one, touch disarmingly delicate along her fine bones, like he’s cradling something newborn and breakable. The zing isn’t present this time, but Gabriel holds his breath all the same. There’s still definitely something.

“Gabriel,” he replies dumbly. He’s aware he’s still staring, but has forgotten how to tear his eyes away. “Gabe.”

Essentially he stares so long, they end up awkwardly holding hands. But he’s not so sure it wouldn’t cause pain on a physical level to detach from her right now. So in an act of self-preservation, he tugs at her hand, twirling her as he strides backwards, until she’s tucked up against his taller frame. The opening strains of a recognizable song drifts in from a few fires over, and he situates her in a line against him, free hand light and unsure at the small of her back despite the intimacy of their chests pressing together. He’s treading the boundary of being out of his element here, but if it means she’s warm and solid like this against him, he’ll be whatever kind of daring is required.

“Well, dance with me, Alethea,” he says softly, grin teasing this time. “That way I can say I’ve had an angel in my arms.”

She fits so nicely there, it should be criminal. The perfect height in her heels for her forehead to be lip level, her hair close enough to nuzzle and catch the scent of as they sway.

“Hmm. Your hair smells really nice. Like vanilla. Orange blossoms,” he murmurs, daring to press his nose into the silk strands that are so close to his face. Breathing her in. It’s said too candidly, lacking agenda, to be considered a continuation of their pick up line play. But when it has her bringing her head up, her face is inches beneath his and his gaze darts down to the shine-stain of punch on her plush lower lip. Realizes maybe it’s creepy to voice his internal observations out loud.

“Sorry,” he winces, tries to sooth it with a quirky smile. “I’ll try to go back to being charming and suave.” He runs a thumb over hers, waltzes them in a new direction in way of distraction.

“What are you doing tomorrow, Alethea of the Botched Pick Up Lines?”