"I don't have any pyjamas," he tells her, with a half-smile, because he doesn't, and why would he? It's always struck him as terribly modern and decadent and him, not wearing any night clothes after so many centuries when he used to. "But I can do something about the dancing," he assures her, and presses a kiss to her ear, since her face is in his neck and it's the closest patch of skin he can get to, before he lets her go and moves, to go grab his communicator from the bed. He throws it at her. "Pick your music, love."

Because that's one thing he doesn't know, what kind of music she even likes, and this is for her, and he takes his shoes and socks off while she picks. He has no intention of stepping on her feet, that's not what it's about. It's about equal footing, really.