There's an exhale of breath in faint amusement when Declan asks if he lost a bet. He can understand the thought, of course, and there's a flutter in his throat in that moment, where his face is cold. Though Gansey only gives it away in the fact that he never quite answers that first question. He tugs the boy's hand from his chest, but he doesn't leave. There's a moment where he isn't sure precisely which way the scales are going to tip, but he walks past him and invites himself inside.

His pulse races a little, and he follows after him, letting the door close behind them. "Yes, I've got Scotch." It takes him a moment, but he slides it out of where he keeps the bottle. Imported in small volume, aged in oak casks, and so on. Not the sort of Scotch his father would drink, but it had an actual flavor profile and didn't taste like paint thinner which worked for Gansey. He grabs two glasses and then sets them on his desk, fills one after the other with an easy hand.

He's not entirely sure if Declan is specifically watching him, but he could be, and there's a strange sort of heat that coils in his frame. He wants him to be. Which is the first moment it occurs to him that this might not be exactly the easy narrative he'd imagined, but he ignores it like all reckless ideas.

He walks over, holding out the glass, a slight curl of a smile as he holds it out for him. "Here," he offers. His voice warm with a slight tilt of his head, watching him in a way he doesn't quite try to hide. There's still that flicker of interest, heat that brightens his hazel eyes. He doesn't touch him this time, but there's a proximity and that smile.