[ His smile falters at that, gives way to an almost slack-jawed sort of surprise. ]

I did?

[ A weird mix of embarrassment and shock twists in his gut, and he fumbles for words, palms running nervously over his legs. He hadn't intended to tell that to anyone, much less Gamora. Had planned to just— drop subtle sorts of hints in the weeks leading up to the festival, then spring the question on the night and see where it took them. ]

I— did.

[ A little more certainly, if only because Gamora isn't really given to lying when she's not playing a part. ]

... Right.

[ He clears his throat, gaze flitting off to some painting hanging on a stark white wall. Splashes of colors – vibrant blues and reds – and thin lines of silver crisscrossing at random. Pretty, Peter guesses, even if he doesn't quite see the point of it.

(It doesn't even look like anything.)

He clears his throat a second time, pointedly avoiding Gamora's gaze. ]

Did you— I mean, you probably— just to, I dunno, humor me or something, but did you—

[ say yes?

His expression pinches, lips pressing together, before he exhales sharply. ]

You know what? Never mind. Forget about all that.