( he does look at her once she's in front of him and there's nothing dividing them but a plate with two forks to share. there's nothing malicious in his eyes — not in regards to betty, never at her. he doesn't remember her dream, although, he has some idea of what it entails from her explanation. this isn't him throwing that in her face, not intentionally anyway. it's that there's a freaking cake shaped like a corpse on the table ( and how many times have they been here exactly, standing in the coroner's office, together and separate? ), waiting to be cut into like an autopsy. he tries for a classic grin but it falters at her question; all he wants is to keep it together for her sake. )

Isn't all of this? ( he remarks plainly, casting his gaze out over the party. a chessboard where people can slap or kiss each other, though some of what he surveyed looked more like contact sports. the mad scramble for diamonds, bringing out the ugliness of competition in people, but mostly, yeah, the cake. )

I didn't mean anything by it. Not really. Just seemed like something I'd share with you if it was more cartoonishly decorated.

( meanings and his priorities drift when she's looking at him like that. as if there aren't people around and there isn't cake in her hands, and they aren't miles from home. )

Do you want to sit? ( or?, he doesn't ask. )