One part of Ibuki wants her to titter; to tell Lucas that he's sure got a lot of kick and twist and spring in his step for a guy who can-nooooot dance...!
It's not like he'd mind, after all! He's the kinda guy who can't give one measly shit about what you tell him as long as he's having fun, and you're not trying to harsh his flow - and even then, there's very little he'll brake for. She knows it, she gets it, and she loves it.
(And even if she was with someone who would mind, well, hey - 's not like she ever means to be mean, anyway. Part of being a musician is speaking the truth, after all. Calls-ing it like you feels it.
Even if what you feels is, plainly and simply, "it sure would be funny to point this out".)
Another part of her decides that actually, saying something like that would be against her religion, so to speak.
After all, quite demonstrably... he can, technically. Most people can; all they gotta do is want to. To let the music in, right?
And not only can he, he will.
They both leap off of furniture, stumble over themselves; shout and cry; skip-tumble-leap like giraffes, twirl like spiders cartwheeling in ungodly directions; all the while, music thrashes and pounds the air and ground and walls with them. Both their eyes are wild, and when she meets his, neither of them blinking, hers fill up with stars and a secondary rush at the unbridled purity of it - starting to remember how she used to dance before she became not just a musician, but a performer; had to focus her feeling while also refining her gospel.
Falling into it, again, with more and more of her body and mind - with the cosmic bliss of knowing it's full, now, in two whole hearts, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes as it bubbles and bubbles and bubbles over.