Tuo, who had moments ago been savouring Lorne's bemusement over the gift like the cat who got into the cream, freezes in the middle of neatly folding his headscarf. His eyes dart from Lorne to Dain, and whatever it is that his sustained eye contact with his old friend communicates, it seems at least one thing is clear: the jig is up.

Under other circumstances, and in other company, he'd be frightened. Instead, the pressure to maintain this particular performance lifts from his shoulders and leaves him feeling light enough to float, should he feel like jumping to his feet and capering about. (He doesn't.)

"Well," he sighs, heavily and resignedly, and tosses his scarf onto the table. "I suppose it was only a matter of time before this came up. You're right, of course, we do know each other." He settles back in his seat and crosses one leg over the other, considering first Lorne and then Dain with his pale, secretive eyes. The silence settles amongst them closely, like the walls and window dressings and furniture are eavesdropping, too.

Then Tuo gestures idly at Dain. "He is my betrothed."