Her laughter dilutes the miserable haze he's carried back from Starkhaven, from the temple. Crowds it back and keeps it at bay, as Wysteria obliges him to turn and duck and turn again. His feet are cold. He has developed such a firm grip on her hand, even allowing for the moments when the clasp of their palms requires some shift of their fingers to accommodate.

Even back to the start, presumably where he might take a turn at leading, the hold on her hand remains.

"Be kind to me, if I miss a step?" is a joke too. Wysteria so rarely minces words.