He squeaks again- less jubilant and more genuine. He preens. He rolls his shoulders forward and back and sucks in his gut so the change wasn't so grossly noticeable. He risks a swooping step forward, like he was pretending to be some knight and the muck underneath was a carpeted wonder of a floor leading to a ballroom- or, better, a bedroom. Holiday wasn't the one nearly falling over from exhaustion, wasn't the blind one, wasn't the unarmed wonder.

The victorious grin won't budge unless he finds himself bleeding, so the wary feeling boiling is only fair. "Should I undo a clasp?" He asks, chipper and casual and coming in closer, though careful not to suffocate her. He'd really rather the peck not be from the knife. But, oh, he's grinning. "Close my eyes?" And he would. She was alright. He would.