Tate's gaze on the dance floor is less loaded than Monet's; he's not too sentimental about anything ever, and while he's felt much more at home at Finchwood than he has anywhere else... everything comes to an end, right? Before the thought goes any further, he's distracted by some really terrible dancing that makes him grimace.

"What? Oh, sure." As usual, Tate's amenable to just about anything, and he slides out of the booth and to his feet without any hesitation before offering Monet a hand. "Can we stay away from that kid erratically doing the sprinkler, though?"