[It's an agreement with her, but it's also a reminder to himself. He still has business to attend to, tonight, as much as he'd like to ignore it, and he shouldn't get caught up out here in the garden, spending all his time with someone he barely even knows, as much as he'd like to. The fact that they can now say that they're on a first name basis means very little, really, and he knows it, but there's something alluring about it, too. Something that makes him want to stay for more than just one dance.
But there's time to think about that later. His hand goes to her waist, his grip firm and confident but not aggressive, not crushing. He wonders for a second why he's doing this, why it's dancing, of all things, that he's chosen, when in actuality, dancing has never been one of his strong suits, especially not since returning home from the war with such a noticeable limp.
Still, this is what he's offered, and this is what he finds he wants, and though there's really no rhythm to it at all, though they're really just swaying slowly back and forth to music that neither of them can hear, he finds it pleasant. It feels oddly safe, despite the fact that anyone who ventured into the garden now would very likely observe them and find what they're doing to be questionable, at the very least. It's too intimate for strangers, and yet, he can still call it innocent in his own mind.
Plausible deniability. That's what it's all about. That's what everything in his life seems to be about these days.
It would be so easy, from here, to lean in for a kiss, to let his hands stray away from her waist and seek out considerably less innocent venues. But he won't do that -- not because he doesn't want to, but because he doesn't want to break this thin thread of trust there seems to be between them (or maybe he's just imagining it there, or wanting it to be there.) Either way, it's just a dance, and he'll keep reminding himself of that fact, albeit a very slow, fairly rhythmless one.]
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[It's an agreement with her, but it's also a reminder to himself. He still has business to attend to, tonight, as much as he'd like to ignore it, and he shouldn't get caught up out here in the garden, spending all his time with someone he barely even knows, as much as he'd like to. The fact that they can now say that they're on a first name basis means very little, really, and he knows it, but there's something alluring about it, too. Something that makes him want to stay for more than just one dance.
But there's time to think about that later. His hand goes to her waist, his grip firm and confident but not aggressive, not crushing. He wonders for a second why he's doing this, why it's dancing, of all things, that he's chosen, when in actuality, dancing has never been one of his strong suits, especially not since returning home from the war with such a noticeable limp.
Still, this is what he's offered, and this is what he finds he wants, and though there's really no rhythm to it at all, though they're really just swaying slowly back and forth to music that neither of them can hear, he finds it pleasant. It feels oddly safe, despite the fact that anyone who ventured into the garden now would very likely observe them and find what they're doing to be questionable, at the very least. It's too intimate for strangers, and yet, he can still call it innocent in his own mind.
Plausible deniability. That's what it's all about. That's what everything in his life seems to be about these days.
It would be so easy, from here, to lean in for a kiss, to let his hands stray away from her waist and seek out considerably less innocent venues. But he won't do that -- not because he doesn't want to, but because he doesn't want to break this thin thread of trust there seems to be between them (or maybe he's just imagining it there, or wanting it to be there.) Either way, it's just a dance, and he'll keep reminding himself of that fact, albeit a very slow, fairly rhythmless one.]