Will starts off, so Rosinante follows, equal parts optimistic and yet terribly confused. Insecurity sinks in with every step, and that's the last thing he wants right now. He'd taken a bold leap, thanks in part to the fortune teller's strange inflicted compulsion to speak his mind, but also because, well - when you want something, you have to do something about it. He trusts Will, and let himself be vulnerable, let the flirting go where it would. "Hope I didn't make a mistake," he says as his thoughts again just sneak away from him and into the open.

"I mean-" he then practically interrupts himself immediately. "That's not the sort of thing I wanted to say. I'll wait, see if I can get my head together enough to get around this fortune teller stuff. If I don't say anything for a while, it's just so we can get to your place without my tongue acting on its own."

He gives a derisive snort, then stumbles to the ground before picking himself up and carrying on. Might just have to calm himself, nothing kills the mood like endless waves of self-doubt and self-deprecation. Instead he thinks of that brief, beautiful moment with Will's hands on his face and holds onto it.