"You think I should be offended for myself?"

"Aren't you?"

Numair racked his brain, focus split on trying to determine just where he could take offense at the prospect of being able to be with her and trying to remember how they had ended up on this decidedly dangerous topic.

"Magelet, I cannot think of a single reason anyone, myself included, would be offended to have their name linked with yours. In fact, I would go so far as to insist that anyone who would not consider themselves lucky to be at your side is, quite frankly, a dolt."

If ever there were a chance someone's eyes could roll right out of their head she would have achieved it then and there. "You are too silly for words, sometimes."

"You don't seem to mind the flattery, though." He reached out and tweaked her nose, delighted by the smile his comment had earned. A smile that she couldn't seem to shake despite the annoyance in her voice.

"You're always so nice to me, and it's fair sweet, but if we're speaking frankly it's clear enough that you're embarrassed when folks think you'd settle for the likes of me." Her smile faded until it seemed forced—an attempt at keeping the conversation light—and she took a deep drink of wine.

"Settle?" He sputtered. He was indignant enough to delve further into the narrative despite his better judgment urging him to change the subject. Another drink from his own cup bolstered this strategy. "On second thought, you're right. A demi-goddess really would be setting my sights low." He raised an eyebrow at her. And here he was the one who was supposed to be too silly for words.

She laughed at that—a little, at least. "Come now; you know what I'm talking of."

"I really don't."

"You—" she gestured with her cup, sighing. "I've seen the women you've been with."

"And?" He urged her to continue, draining his cup.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he made note of her comment. He knew she'd picked up on his brief reunion with Varice though they never spoke of it directly, and there'd been a handful of lovers she'd seemed aware of in the years since but the way she'd spoken made it seem like she paid more attention than just passing notice. He wondered why she cared. He knew why he noted hers, but that was surely for reasons completely foreign to her.

"I've seen what they look like." She avoided meeting his eyes. "They're—" she motioned again, faltering, "Well, they aren't me."

"No," he replied slowly, wrapping his brain around what she was saying. "What would—" He finally grasped what she was clearly trying to communicate and something fundamental in his perception of her changed. The fact that she had clearly thought about whether or not he could be attracted to her was shattering in a way that he had not expected.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and braced himself for a mistake. "Daine, I don't want to be indelicate and perhaps it's the wine talking—" he paused when she handed him one of the bottles as she took a swig directly from the other and followed her lead. Mutually assured destruction, then. He wiped his mouth before continuing, "Do you believe I don't think you're attractive enough for me?"

She mumbled something and he had to ask her to repeat it.

"You have a type, Numair. I'm certainly not it."

"There have, perhaps, been some similarities—" He stopped to let her laugh and sighed. It was not something he liked to draw attention to, but he was well aware that he had historically held a strong preference for a particular type of woman and was even more acutely aware of just how the fallout of his relationship with Varice had apparently shaped his romantic life for decades to come. That was a conversation he would need far more wine to delve into. "You are very pretty, Daine."

"Thank you." Her expression shifted between pleased and disappointed, but he noted that she accepted the compliment when her usual tactic was to sidestep it altogether. "But you know that's different."

"I will have you know that I do, in fact, also find the women I court to be pretty." He was being glib and he knew it.

"Courting, is it?" She side-eyed him and took another drink. He wasn't sure he liked that she seemed well aware of just how casual his affairs trended. Although, if he were to be honest, she rarely seemed keen on pursuing anything serious with her suitors—even if they were. He was aware of at least one proposal she'd spurned. "Pretty is all well and good, but I'm talking of attraction."

"Attraction?"

"Yes." She leaned back on her hands, setting her bottle to the side. A breeze moved between them, dragging curls across her face. She pushed them back, looking at him. "Desire."

"Desire." He turned the word over, feeling the weight of it in his mouth. Had he ever spoken to her of desire? Certainly not in the context of something between them. He took another drink to buy himself another moment to think. It was probably time to put it aside—he drank rarely, and he could feel his wits becoming dull. He could feel how telling her every thought in his mind seemed like a good idea.

She was watching him closely and it occurred to him that his struggle wasn't as internal as he thought. He sighed, taking her in—had her shirt been unbuttoned that low all night? He remembered himself and drew his gaze back up to meet hers, trying to work out her expression. She spoke of desire; couldn't she see it written on his face when he looked at her?

"It's okay." She said when he failed to lead the conversation. "You don't have to try to make me feel better. It's something I already knew." She didn't look upset—sad, maybe, but in a way that expressed acceptance rather than distress.

"No, it's not that." He took a deep breath. "This is just a difficult conversation to navigate. For me." A little honestly, perhaps, but not too much.

"It's a bit odd for us; I'll give you that."

"More than a bit. I don't want to hurt you, and I don't want to say something that would make you uncomfortable or," he stumbled on his words, "or affect our friendship." That was true, with the exception of the part of his brain—wine-soaked and love-drunk—that said to hell with the friendship: he wanted the change. He wanted everything.

She leaned forward, drawing her knees to her chin and wrapping her arms around her legs. Her expression was intent when she found his eye. "A little faith, Numair. I can't think of anything you could tell me that would be so bad as that." When he looked uncertain she continued. "I know some deeply embarrassing things about you, and you're still stuck with me."

He laughed, a little tension easing from his body. "Alright then," he inhaled and heard how shaky the sound was. He forced himself to meet her eye and found that once he did he couldn't look away. "To clarify, you are very attractive—" he raised a hand to stop her counter-statement, "I don't just mean that you are pretty to look at, though that's true. You are desirable. Physically. Sexually."

There was an expression on her face that was new to him: the ghost of a smile but tinged with something like excitement. He felt his stomach flutter, responding to what he hoped he was seeing. What was surely a trick of the hour and wine and his own longing.

He swallowed, voice dropping. "And I don't say that as an objective opinion, but a personal one."