He stretches out his own arm in return (the great Rumor, ladies and gents, here she is), the pair of them smoothly-executed in mirroring each other and granting the metaphorical stage. The dance itself as well-synchronised as if they'd practiced it, as if it hasn't been a whole two-plus years since the last time they practiced ballroom in the parlour of the Hargreeves manor. Falling back into old and comfortable rhythms again, as easy as a fight, as easy as always having each others' back.

With his attention on the small crowd — Luther's always concerned with appearances, and how people watch him — he doesn't catch her falter, that tiny tremble to her smile before she gets her own mask back in place.

But he does shoot her a sidelong look, and he still looks bright, entertained. (Oblivious.) "I think it passed muster," he says.