Oh, if he'd been talking about being socially awkward, that would have been the highest point of hypocrisy he'd ever risen to. No, he's just... fidgeting at them. He won't say fussing. It's just to stop them sliding out onto the floor on their back like a discarded piece of paper and that's that. He's practical.

Lemm perches beside them (with space between, but only small) with his hands folded together, legs straight in front of him, and gives himself a short moment to stare into space and brave the next step.

(In the dim light of a lamp strung up overhead, the tea is a rich reddish-brown, with flecks floating around at the bottom that look like they might be bark. The cup is predictably antique, decorated around the handle with scratched silvery leaf; there's a painted Hallownest Seal on the inside, and Lemm has filled the cup appropriately to the middle line, as if by habit. It's part of a matched set, they might remember - someone might remember...)

"...Wait til the tea settles," he advises, quietly, as if this is a rule he's gone by before. "You'll know your hands are steady enough."