She looked good, he couldn't help but think, watching her move closer. She also looked… flustered, very flustered. Seeing that response knocked Octavius out of his little stupor and knocked a bit of sense into him. What had he been thinking, showing up here like this, unannounced? What a huge mistake this could—probably would—end up being. Surely he'd hate anyone turning up without a word like this, particularly anyone of the nature he was to Rose. There was a right way and a wrong way to go about things, and he was suddenly very sure this visit was off to a poor start by his presumptions.
"I'm sorry!" he blurted out, thrusting the pink box forward. "For dropping in like this, I just—I've been wanting to, and I was afraid I'd lose my nerve if I were to write you or such." Lame, these were such lame excuses, he was such a lame person—
His eyes dropped to the éclairs, and he held it out a little further, his thank-you note stuck on the top of the box. "I'll leave if you want me to, I just—wanted to give you these and tell you… just, thanks, for the, erm—for my birthday."
There was a split-second of silence before he added, even more lamely, "You still get the éclairs, though. If I leave."
Just so she wouldn't think he was trying to bribe her. But as he studied the pink box, he realised that… yeah, that was likely what this was. Witches love pastries.
(They did, didn't they?)
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