"Okay, don't even act like you're thinking about it right now. I've seen that look on your face before, I know when those wheels are turning," Wichita declares, eyes narrowing slightly as her mouth falls open in a small look of protest. She doesn't have to take significant advantage of their proximity to lean over and nudge his arm with hers, but she does, a slight jostling of her elbow against his own before she settles back into her own space with a small roll of her eyes. There's nothing mordant in her voice or expression, not beyond the surface level, and by the time she starts listening to his color analysis, any remnants of potential annoyance are gone completely.

"Please. You should know that ballet is not strictly limited to frilly tutus. Some of us go with the black leotard and eighties leg warmers look," she adds, chin tipping up in a mock-haughty defiance.