Miles blinks again, flushes a little darker, looking something like some odd chimera of sheepish and deer in the headlights. It's the maple mead that's slowing him down, making him act without thinking, on -- not instinct. Something else. He can't seem to shake it. He hovers there still, mouth open, throat working, but still on a second's delay.

"I -- yes. Sort of. In theory," Miles finally admits lamely. There's a difference between keeping the professional and personal separate -- which they have, dammit -- and keeping a very good secret. Naismith had to get sloppy somewhere along the line eventually, he thinks glumly. After a beat of hesitation, he starts to pull his hand away, wincing. "How obvious?"