She didn’t take kindly to failure. Well, that was certainly a thought which resonated with him. Connor didn’t feel the urge to hide the small smile of appreciation as he regarded her. Twisting his fingers around, hand gently pivoting back and forth as he held the whiskey glass, he nodded. “Perfect, thank you…” He already knew what he wanted to get her. Something delicate, slender like her person. Rather than pursuing something which might've had a higher need for precision, he would order the design of a blade with a medium width, an angled spine, and a tapering dropped tip which the meat of the blade would lead into. The blade would have a white bone handle with a study leather wrap, and a critically needed guard, such that her grip would remain true. It would be presented in a finished sheath for ease of security to her person.

Were Connor to have ever been the sort to marry, he might’ve failed tremendously at the task of choosing a ring. But in giving the gift of a knife? He might as well have been a prince.

He watched intently as she plucked up the bottle, and drifted for the stairs with the sway in her step. What came next, however, was a small snort as he rolled his eyes – following her, though clearly unamused. As the words came dryly, he offered a raised brow and coy smile. “I thought ignoring it might do, but you’re never to let me live that down, now are you…?”

Not waiting for her response, and with a surprising pep to his step that would’ve sloshed his whiskey had he not nearly swallowed the remainder of the glass, he drifted up very close behind her, body pressing briefly against her back. Flush, warm. His breath would tickle her shoulder before, like a cat, he slipped by her and up the stairs a few paces. “Do not fear, I’ll have my retaliation when you train. I may not be able to sleep like a bear, but I can damn well fight like one.”