"I'd love to, except— oh man, you're probably gonna regret asking. I can only ballroom dance." That isn't even a line. He'd been trained for formal events since he was a child, his father barking time and keeping count, the training record crackling its instructions, the group of them taking turns at stately dance forms. Nightclubs? Not so much on the Academy curriculum.

Still, though, Luther gamely drains the rest of his drink and sets the empty back on the bar. Holds out the crook of his elbow, chivalrously, as if he's about to escort her out onto the dancefloor.

"But I'll do my very best."