Nice Digs.

His expression drops, exasperated. “Oh, come on,” 

“No, I mean you would not be able to handle it.” 

He scoffs, “Handle it?” He chuckles, “No, truly. Give it here.” He reaches further with almost too much confidence. 

She shrugs, “If you insist.” 

Umbrithil hoists up the vase, muscles flexing under her sleeves and capelet unseen by Azavan as he places one hand under the base and another at the side to cradle it-- but immediately the unbelievable weight of the decorative piece drags him downward. 

No time is wasted, and Umbrithil moves quickly, practically diving for the vase as her hand shoots under Azavan's at the base, pushing his hand upwards to assist in catching it before it can crash into the floor below. 

The jolt of panic that takes the both of them by storm was enough to distract them for the briefest of moments, from the fact that they are practically nose-to-nose in proximity, both holding up this vase together. 

Eyes finally meet, inches from one another's face, so close in fact that they can breathe in the other's scent so perfectly clear, the adrenaline rushing through each of them finally kicking them both into realization. 

Umbrithil retracts first, clutching the vase to her chest tightly, wide eyed at the man before her. 

Azavan's face becomes covered with a flush, clearing his throat with a disheveled break in his voice, “Right, well, um, ten paces.” He takes a deep breath, and turns to continue walking on.