DISCLAIMER: Well, CBS won't give them to me, so I obviously don't own them.
Sara doesn't know how to dance.
She never did the dancing lessons thing as a child, and when there were dances at school she stayed home and read a book. She feels she's got no sense of rhythm; she seems not to be able to move in time to the music without suddenly developing awful co-ordination skills and an urge to hide.
No one but Nick could have talked her into this, and only because he seemed to want it so much. Need it, maybe. It feels totally ridiculous, to be dancing like this together in her living room, amongst books and pot plants and stacks of magazines. They're dancing in the dark, but it's so hard not to see the memories of the things surrounding them. She's in one of her favourite rooms, and she feels both out of place and completely at home.
One step, two steps, three steps.
Nick's leading. He did that dancing lessons thing, because it was on the list of what his parents considered important. She wonders, briefly, how he remembered all this after all these years, and wonders what that little boy looked like dancing with little girls in frilly white dresses.
She's wearing jeans and a tank top.
Sara shifts her grip on his hand just a little. One or both of them has sweaty hands. It's probably her. It would be fitting, anyway. She closes her eyes and focuses on the feeling of her hand in his. His feels large, and strong, and she can feel the way each of his fingers grips her own. He squeezes her hand in response, and she imagines his smile.
One step, two steps, three -
She stumbles over Nick's bare foot and cringes. He doesn't break his rhythm as he tightens his arm around her. There wasn't much risk of her actually falling, but it's not in Nick's nature to take that chance.
She's very good at being embarrassed in the dark.
One step, two steps, three steps.
She seems to melt just a little closer to Nick, and she's suddenly acutely aware of their bodies pressing together. She can feel his chest rising and falling against her, and the soft cotton of his t-shirt, beneath which his muscles move under the hand which rests on his back.
One step, two steps, three steps.
She breathes in, long and deep, and smells more than she should be able to: Nick and deoderant and shower gel and washing powder, all mingled together. Before she lets her breath out completely she's let her head drop forward and without her bidding it's resting on his shoulder. She can feel the solid outline of his collar bone against her forehead.
Nick releases her hand and she feels momentarily bereft before his hand slides down her arm, skin on skin, a wonderfully familiar touch, and down around her waist. She wraps her arms tightly around him, tightening her fingers slightly in his shirt because suddenly she feels she couldn't bear to let him go.
He bends his head down to hers and rests them together. His breathing is as rough against her skin as his unshaven cheek, but she is aware of nothing so much as how gentle he is with her. He treats her like a china doll, and what sometimes infuriates her seems endearing after the night they've had.
The music plays on in the background, but they don't keep dancing with it. Instead they stand together in the dark, holding each other, so aware of each other that the rest of the world seems to fade out.
She finds his mouth with her own. His lips are slightly dry, they always are, but she can feel his tongue against her teeth, sliding into her. He tastes, faintly, of coffee and chocolate, but mostly of nothing but the dull taste of Nick. It's familiar, comforting, intimate, and for some reason that she can't even begin to explain she suddenly wants to cry.
Nick slowly pulls away, and she opens her eyes to look at him. He runs a thumb over her cheekbone and says, "Come to bed, baby."
When she nods, he takes her hand again and leads her towards her bedroom.
One step, two steps, three steps.
THE END