They had been doing the age-old dance for years now- the dance performed by those who want to touch but know they should not, who know they cannot. They skirted around each other, like contortionists, avoiding each other's touch for nearly the same reason as they were drawn to each other; for ever since the fated garden party they had felt this static that pushed them apart and drew them together all at once.

All of this changed the moment he touched her hip.

He could have reached for anywhere- her shoulder, her arm, even her waist- and it would not have been so cataclysmic. His hand was suddenly the only thing that existed and all of the air seemed to have suddenly been sucked out of the room. Everything was Tom- Branson- eyes- lips- and she wondered if he could feel her heart beating from his hand's location, if he could sense the sudden heating inside her.

He was saying something, struggling to make sense of what was happening in his mind. A future worth having; what future could be worth having that didn't involve the flesh and bone beneath his left hand? Fighting back the knowledge that in some other place or time- the future- he could add his other hand and pull her hips to meet his, he drew his hand back and felt everything hanging on tenterhooks as she leaned forwards, then back, then was gone.

After that, it was a game of chicken.