And it’s endearing, how heartened he is to this. How much sincerity drips off his svelte tongue, how much candor. He brings your hand to his lips, doesn’t quite kiss but presses his lips in; delicately, sweetly.

But not timid, never timid. Diffidence holds no residence in your home. 

“Well, your most delightful wishes you would call it a night,” you speak kindly, sweetly, as you tend to do with the man before you. You shift, use your free hand to run over broad shoulders, past button-down clad collar bones–to his chest, and back up. “You are not as young as you used to be. These late evenings do not treat your old bones well.”

Welt laughs at this, chuckles low and soft and near gravelly in the way that rattles his chest; that ignites your soul. He runs a hand over his face, up to his eyes and slips under rectangular lenses. He sighs, deep and content, and allows your hands to massage gently along his shoulders, lets you turn his chair and step between tailored suit pants. You fit perfectly, here–as you always will.

“You never fail to call me out on my senectitude, do you?” 

It’s a question, but he isn’t quite asking. He knows the answer, as do you. His hands fall to the backs of your legs, the bend of your knees. Never in a way that feels inappropriate, never in a way that feels impeding. But in a way that feels, through and through, besotted.

“If I did not keep you in your place, who would? Himeko? Dan Heng?” You lean in closer, to where the front of your thighs are flirting with a vested chest. “Heavens forbid, March Seventh.”

“Oh yes,” he chuckles again, shakes his head gently, “Heavens forbid.”

A sense of serenity seeps throughout the room. Settles in the seams of your britches and the aches in your bones. Eases your joints and your mind. Your fingers find the nape of a stiff neck, sift their way through mouse brown hair. Salt sprinkled in but still so sweet.

Nights with Welt are always like this. Content, comfortable. Easy. It is always easy, even when you have to pry him away from his work tooth and nail. Even when you have to taunt him with the prospect of his son waiting up for him to come home. Even then–the air never holds bother. 

He leans into your touch, as you do to his. You lean and you push and you pry, ever so slightly. Combing through grey streaks with your nimble fingers, you hum to the man below you.

“We should try that place. On the corner,” you denote, almost in passing but he knows better. “On a night where you do not work late.

“Ah,” he nods, blows a hint of a snicker through his nose, “Perhaps I will call and place a reservation.”

“You don’t really need reservations anymore, these days.” It’s a slight taunt, a dig at his age. He knows this. But he’s too tired to care and, truthfully, he finds it quite endearing. “Kind of a sign of the times.”

“And yet, I will call to make one,” he settles, rubbing up the back of your thigh.

“And yet you will,” you adhere. “How charming of you, Mr. Yang.”

“I do my best.”

“That you do.” 

His legs spread, now, to allot you more space. To allot you a smaller gap, a pull. Reigning you in and drawing you up until you feel as if you are fully enraptured. And yet, he believes you are doing the same to him; that he is the one fallen victim to suave flitters and affable jibes. An outlier, that the two of you seem to always indulge. 

But who could blame you? After all, Welt Yang is nothing short of a true gentleman. An honorable scholar and powerful influence among society–you are blessed to have a seat at his feet. But he pulls your chair to his side, instead. Never below him, never beneath him; but with him, all the same. You admire that, adhere to that. 

“It is getting late,” he says, in the voice you know is meant to be a tease, in the best way he can manage so towards you (towards anyone), “I am thinking of calling it a night.”

“What splendid timing, then,” you grin, warm and gentle but nearing a simper, almost. “As I am hoping for the chance to escort you home.”

“Why,” he huffs, breathy chuckle of disbelief and a squeeze to your legs, “I believe I will be the one to escort you, if you deem me so fit.”

“The logistics don’t matter,” you wave off, grab his coat off the back of his chair as he stands, finally. He leans in, presses a kiss to your cheek, then the other. “We can both be escorts.”

“Oh, the implications of that statement,” he turns his head, crinkles his nose slightly in the way old men do, and you love him. “Let us not repeat that.”

“Yes, Mr. Yang,” you bubble, laugh through your agreeance as you lean in yourself, loop an arm up and around a lithe neck. Finally, a closure, a proper greeting. “Whatever you say.”

“I say we go home,” he smiles, charming in his own right, as he winds an arm around you, too, “How does that sound, my dear?”

“Oh that sounds delightful, Mr. Yang.” A circle back, a wrap around. You press forward til there’s only millimeters separating you, til your noses are flirting with each other. “Very delightful.”

And you kiss him, because there is no one to stop you. You kiss him and you let him escort you home where your son waits, for his father and you. And you sink into the solace of your home, where diffidence holds no residence.