There is a weight in that look, in the lowered lids and the gleam of green eyes through the shadows of long lashes, that is undeniable; and there is, perhaps, a slight darkening of his own eyes in answer, a shift in focus. But it is slight, and it is under control; the trace of her foot against his leg is sweetly promising, but he has never been one to take promises unspoken. He does not dwell on the parting of her lips, the breathy sound of her laughter; he does not let himself linger on what other breathy sounds might be drawn from those lips. He does not think, because he will not be so crude as to think, how those sharp green eyes might look misted and upturned, or how her touch might trail just as slowly as that brush of her foot, which he is not blind enough to mistake now for chance.

He does not think on any of that, because that path leads, at best, to embarrassment when he stands up, and at worst, to actual harm. But he does think, when she watches him across the table, of how her mouth might feel against his, whether the wine might not be sweeter from her lips. He does not think she would object - a thing that is, in itself, still a kind of wonder. She has invited him in. There is an excitement that is almost fear that goes along with that: a sense of a rubicon, a step towards something more serious than a casual talk in a coffee shop, or a walk through an art gallery.

He had not realised, until their conversation, how much he has craved that. How lonely, despite all his acquaintances and all the people he sees day by day, he has been.

"I cannot imagine anything lovelier," he replies, smiling, and in the moment, means it.