Gosling? Is that the one who had eight kids? ( Feinting ignorance; pop culture may be a gap in his knowledge generally speaking, but it doesn't go quite so far. ) I don't dance. Or sing along to terrible music. ( Only a half truth. Could anyone that grew up around Izzy claim to not dance? A display reserved for very special occasions. As for the Taylor Swift music; it won't be confirmed at this point.

Taking note of Clary's nonexistent attempt at freeing herself from his grasp, a rush of warmth spreads throughout, pleasant and dizzying. An effect only she could ever claim responsibility for. Swallowing thickly, wanting the lump in his throat to disappear, their trek into beta building comes in relative silence, until they were in the elevator together, doors slipping closed, a soft humming sound carrying out )

I've never...really had my own place. ( Low, gentle words. Something he doubted would come as a surprise to Clary; she doesn't know all the details of his life, few do, but an awareness deep enough to have an inkling towards prior living arrangements ) You're the artist. Maybe you'll help me get it set up. ( Because, clearly, asking directly for her help would have been far too difficult. This, the conversation, serves a separate purpose. Distraction. To keep his gaze from inevitably focusing on her lips.

A realization; this feels like the first time they've been truly alone with one another. In the institute, there was always the knowledge that others were a few rooms away at best...this, soon to have Clary in his apartment, is different )