"The milkshake was sort of a hint, yeah." Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Aria surreptitiously paying the bartender and he almost heaved a sigh. "Next one's on me," he promised as he plucked up his drink. C'mon, just let him be a gentleman already.
But his attention was already moving onwards: "Sally forth." For a second, while passing her, Aidan rested his free hand on the small of Aria's back, delivering a gentle nudge to start her walking. But then the physical touch was gone almost as soon as it began, small and light and fleeting. This was a strange and stilted zone for them to be hovering in -- occasionally he seemed liable to nudge the decorum into date territory, but other times there was the flicker of backpedalling safely into the category of Just Friends. She'd poured her heart out into an obvious mix; he'd delicately suggested a Valentine's Day drink; now she seemed set on being aggressively platonic; but she did dress up --
He didn't get it. His head was spinning and he hadn't even started drinking yet. Christ, this was why he hated the social battlefield that constituted relationships: the pacing, the posturing, the guesswork, the indecision, the wondering. Reading intent in the olden days seemed simpler: unescorted company meant romantic overtures. Proclamations were delivered in black-on-white, literally to the letter. Things were clear-cut. And for all that he operated by-the-book and preferred the strict, interpretable confines of the law, his social life was becoming increasingly nebulous and confusing.
But now he'd seated himself in the booth, sliding furthest into the curved C (they could sit opposite one another, or beside one another -- her choice).
"So. Tell me. On a scale of 1-10, how horrifying was it?"