stragan and dancing
“Dr. Strand,” Alex huffs out a laugh at the pathetic placement of his hand much, much higher than it should be on her back, like he’s afraid that if he puts it lower her ass will bite (which it won’t, she thinks, unless this place has put some sort of curse on her) “it’s okay.”
He doesn’t move his hand any lower, but his eyes crinkle at the corners in silent amusement, a quality of of his that she’s recently come to admire, along with the conspiracy beard — and god, she can’t believe she actually misses the conspiracy beard.
“I don’t really think proper dancing technique is in question at the moment, Alex,” he murmurs, gaze flicking towards where Nic is currently attempting to read through a horribly decrepit latin spell-book, and Alex snorts in agreement.