"It's like swimming."
"We established I'm bad at swimming."
"Then it's like... breathing."
"I'm currently bad at that too."
And he was as she could hear his breath coming quick and shallow as he placed one hand at her waist, the other taking hers. The contact, even through layers of fabric, sent sparks through Clara's entire body.
"Now what?" Gabriel asked, his voice rough.
"Now we move."
"Where?"
"Around."
"That's very specific."
“Gabriel, has no one ever observed that you are perhaps too inclined to reflection?”
"Constantly."
"Just... follow the music."
"There is no music."
"Then follow the memory of music."
And somehow, that worked. They began to move, slowly, awkwardly at first, but then finding a rhythm that belonged only to them. Gabriel's hand at her waist was warm, steady despite his claims of imbalance. Clara's hand in his felt right in a way that terrified her.
“This is not wise,” Gabriel said, but he didn't stop moving.
“I believe you are correct…” Clara agreed, but she moved closer.
“I believe it would be in our best interest if we put an end to this.”
"We should."
Neither stopped. They turned slowly in the dusty morning room, dancing to music only they could hear, two people caught between what was and what could never be.
"I dream about you," Gabriel said suddenly, the words seeming pulled from him against his will. "Not... not like that. Or not just like that. I dream about the garden. About being children. About grafting that cursed rose and you naming it something absurd."
"Our Secret Bloom wasn't absurd."
"It was completely ridiculous."
"You agreed to it."
"I agreed to everything you said."
"That's not true. You argued constantly."
"Only because you enjoyed it when I argued."
Clara pulled back slightly to look at his face. "Did I?"
“You would favour me with that slight, satisfied smile, suggesting you had achieved a victory merely by prompting me to offer resistance.”
