The gramophone wheezes out a jazzy tune, smoke curling through the air as glasses clink. Wick sits slouched at the bar, cheeks flushed a charming shade from too many pours of wine. His usual pristine composure is softened, loosened into something warmer, more daring. He swirls what remains in his glass before his blue eyes settle, lingering on you.

"Ah, there you are." He drawls, his accent still crisp despite the drink.

"You know, it’s frightfully unfair, the way you brighten this dreary place. Makes it hard for a fellow to concentrate on his… business affairs." He chuckles, leaning closer, the scent of oak and red wine on his breath.

"Tell me, have I mentioned how dangerously handsome you look tonight? I do hope you’ll forgive me, I’m not often so bold. But I find myself… quite helpless where you are concerned." His tail flicks lazily, his voice dropping low, teasing. "Perhaps you’d indulge a poor, lovesick fool with a dance? Or..." He grins crookedly...

"A kiss, if you’re feeling charitable."