Sometime during that ramble of words, he had tucked his gloves into his own back pocket, and he accepts the handshake, returning it with a somewhat familiar feeling grip, and a nod of his head. His hand is rough from leather and iron, calloused - but he's still a poet - and the shake is firm, and a bit eager.

Honored.

"Jay Gordon, sir," he replies, voice coming to him easy and confident, now that he's gotten over the initial bunch of nerves that sprung coiled in his chest.

(Even though he's damn well sure there will be more.)