You lean back against the doorframe, stretching out your body for Moargen's contemplation. "What say you to a final exercise together to end rehearsal?" you purr. "My lips are feeling awfully strained."
Moargen seems deeply uncomfortable for a moment before bursting out in frustration. "Why would you put me in this position, Bandochel? Just because you find me appealing, now I must pretend to reciprocate to spare your feelings?"
"Only if you want," you say, slowly dropping your sensual pose. You seem to have struck a chord with the dancer that your looks (such as they are) are not sufficient to overcome.
"I will give you the benefit of the doubt today, colleague, as you are young and we have much work to do together," she says. "But if you make a habit of foisting yourself on anyone who takes your fancy, you are following Timshel's footsteps. Think long and hard if that is what you want."
And with that she leaves you to yourself.
You squeeze your mouth shut. Not only is this likely to impact your ability to work together, despite what she said, it will add a scoundrel's air to your reputation [-Company] [+Knavery]. All in a day's work, you think sourly, leaving the small room.
Sunday Looms