Dance with Vaughn.

Having mingled for nearly an hour, Vaughn leads you now before the dais, where the band plays a hearty, low-tempo tune thick with bass-y cello.

“Do you dance often, Lord Dragoon?” he asks you. He turns you gently toward him and takes your body in his arms, snakes his fingers through yours.

“Often enough,” you say, a little breathlessly, “to know the steps.”

He smiles, graying beard twitching at the corners of his mouth, which is chapped-looking but full, with a split down his bottom lip. You break your gaze away to stare at his chest, at the decorations upon it, the medals of rank and victory. He pulls you tighter to him, so that you rest against them -- those medals -- more comfortable than you would have thought. His chest is firm, the hands at your back warm. You can hear his heartbeat, much quicker than you would have thought given his calm, collected demeanor, his easy rapport and fearless eyes. Every now and then he squeezes you a little tighter, the breath of a hug, full of a distinct possessiveness that makes you feel -- perhaps surprisingly -- safe. You melt into him, the sounds of the people around you drifting away until its just the press of Vaughn’s firm body and the lull of music.

When it stops, he parts from you gently, pushing you out to arm’s length. “You do.”

“I do?” you stammer, and he grins, flashing white teeth.

He sucks his lips, swallowing something left unsaid, and nods. “Know the steps,” he clarifies, and takes your arm to lead you away from the dais.