He didn't want to be cold in response to the kiss, but Gilmore froze, caught between the urge to indulge Vax'ildan and the urge to protect himself and turn his cheek sharply. Of course, a peck on the cheek was a friendly gesture, wasn't it? In Marquet, it wasn't a romantic gesture. In fact, Gilmore did it all the time. Why, then, did it feel like his heart stop? Why did he feel like it wasn't just a friendly gesture? Was it sincere? Was it teasing him, taunting him?
Wrought with indecision, the sorcerer lifted himself off the chaise and moved over to the fireplace under the pretense of casting another spell upon the fire. He pressed his palms into the air and a series of circles and sigils, pulsing with lavender light, formed around them. Gilmore twisted them, scrambling the arcane formula with his metamagic to transform the very essence of the magical fire he had previously conjured. As it crackled, it pushed a gentle, cooling breeze into the room. With the new spell written into the Weave, the sigils began to fade away.
The Art always helped relax him.
"I'm a sorcerer, Vax'ildan, not a wizard, you can't learn my brand of magic. You're born with it." Gilmore took a big breath, his eyes still on the flames. His back wouldn't betray the uncertainty that was on his face. Now, he ventured another joke to further conceal his feelings. "Besides, you don't have the patience for wizardry. Anyway, yes, it is an actual room. It would be sinful to waste the oceanview, so I reserve magical accommodations for traveling."