Barcelona. The city, not the planet.

He is standing at the edge of a plaza, completely ignoring the festive activities around him. His attention is focussed solely on a woman wearing a traditional Spanish dress, a flower in her hair. She glows with excitement, and in all his lives he has never seen anything quite as beautiful.

Her gaze sweeps the plaza, taking everything in. Finally their eyes meet, icy blue and liquid brown. A smile blossoms on her face, and he realises once more that he is doomed, maybe has been from the moment he first took her hand. He couldn't care less.

A guitar is playing a paso doble, and her body picks up the rhythm, moving to the music like a dancer. She is drawing glances from more than one man, but her eyes never leave his. After what feels like an eternity she is finally standing in front of him. "Dance with me?"

A strand of hair is trying to escape the formal bun she is wearing and he gently tucks it back behind her ear. "Not here," he whispers, his breath grazing her skin, and he can see her shiver in the warm sun.

He takes her hand like he did the first time, like he always does, like he will always do, and leads her away from the festival to a different kind of dance.

She may never tell him again what she said when he first took her to bed, he may never be able to tell her, but their actions speak louder than words. Their bodies move in an age old rhythm, fighting, loving, driving each other to completion.

She falls asleep in his arms, looking almost fragile. For a long time he just watches her, trying to commit every detail to memory, her scent, the soft noises she makes.

Soon something will try to tear them apart, he can feel it. But they are like those dancers they watched earlier. The storm might bend them, but they won't break.