( As much as they've truly touched one another, it's been fervent, hurried things — desperate. Hands curling around the material of clothing, an embrace that slammed them both together with the shuddering ache of near-loss, tugging, grabbing, holding. It's never been like this, he's never touched her hand like this. It fits so easily, her fingers around his, and he lets his own curve gently right back. It's a careful grasp. Quickly, his other hand relinquishes his cap to join his drink on the table, freeing himself fully for her.

As he moves, and now that he's not so stiffly avoiding looking too directly at Wynonna, his eyes roam ever so slightly, and he finally properly catches that glint hanging at her neck. He doesn't dare look too closely, not yet, eyes flickering down and then back up as quickly as an insect. (Wynonna might feel his hand suddenly squeeze hers a little tighter, like an involuntary pulse.)

He moves out away from the drinks, though not in the center of things, still a little bit off to the side. Still a little private, even if none of this really can be. He isn't too concerned with others noticing them, somehow, he just wants to be in a space that's quiet, for them.

Finally he comes to a halt again, taking a breath as he looks back up at her. Beat. That, he hadn't considered. )

Admittedly, I have never danced with anyone before, ( he can't help giving one of his careful, self-deprecatory laughs. He knows the basic movements of some, but not intimately. )

But— I saw you dancing with Mr. Givens.

( Of course, admitting to watching her is another of those unthinkable things, but it's becoming easier and easier to think of doing them anyway. He doesn't think she'd mind knowing, even if he's shy all over again to admit that he was watching her at all. )

I believe that, I can do. Perhaps with some practice. ...Though I'll not claim that you won't simply become frustrated with me.

( He has to laugh again, but this time more of a deeper, robust thing, genuinely a little amused. )