Tristan, who knew pretty well what Moscato tasted like, suppressed a smile (or tried) as he raised the glass to his lips. He probably should have been embarrassed. It was clear by now, even to him, that he was being - helped along. But all he felt was relief, with a giddy edge that was getting harder and harder to ignore. "It's quite good," he said quietly, without setting it down. He had the decency to sound mildly ashamed. "You're right." He was grateful, too; it was much more straightforward than tea. He touched the rim of his glass to hers when she had filled it, watching her a little more freely. It was as though he'd given himself permission to do more than notice that she was really quite beautiful, more than worth watching.
"Do you mind if we sit?" he asked, feeling he really should make some effort. She wouldn't have to position him into place, too.