Doing fine for himself or not, Desmond hasn't really considered himself an obvious or particularly suitable dance partner for anybody before. So it's not as though the thought that hasn't been put out into the universe already. It's out there among good company. Even if it doesn't stop him from making an attempt at standing with his shoulders straight and placing careful fingers in the most polite place he can think of in the available space between her ribs and her hip.

He takes a step forward. (There's counting somewhere. He knows there's supposed to be some sort of counting.) "Don't ever know what I'm supposed to be doin' at em," he admits, mouth twitching. "Mostly just go for the buffet. And people watching."