She makes a strangled little sound of protest when he catches her -- this is all bad enough without him interrupting her already undignified retreat -- but then the compliment registers. Stunning, he says, his hand on her cheek, and she stares up at him for a moment before dropping her forehead onto his shoulder with a soft groan. Well, now she just feels a different sort of ridiculous, though at least it's tempered by relief.

"You haven't," she says quietly in response to his comment about trousers. She once borrowed a pair of Sam's sweatpants out of desperation -- a story she hasn't shared, for obvious reasons -- but she doesn't own anything like that, herself, not even pajamas-wise.

She lifts her head when he steps back, cheeks flushed with lingering mortification and burgeoning pleasure as he takes her in. "You really like it? I--I thought it might be fun to wear something like this to the next party we go to, but I didn't want to put you off." She looks down at herself, fiddling with the hem of the waistcoat, as if it isn't lying perfectly to begin with. "I couldn't have worn anything like this back home, and I imagine it wasn't the, er, done thing where you come from, either."