*I would like to say thankyou for all the feedback and reviews I've had- I've never published any of my writing before, and they absolutely made my day! :)

She can hear his breathing. It's ragged, and with every inhalation, his warm chest presses into her, slowly, slowly. Branson's eyes are glued to the grey frame of the door, ears pricked, senses buzzing with the sharp clarity fear lends in such moments. The silence is endless. He watches and waits, not daring even to set Sybil down, until the soft rustle that so panicked him sounds again, this time with a train of leaves and a cold, caustic wind that bites into the tension, and he can't help but smile as she asks him if he's afraid of the wind.

Turning back, he is just in time to see her catch her breath as he meets her eyes, wonders just what she sees in them to make her fingers tighten in his hair, and her delicate mouth to quiver. He can't look away. It's so easy to forget, he thinks, as he leans into her across the car, trying to protect her from the autumn chill. So easy to lose himself in this crease of reality that simply cannot be allowed to exist, yet exist it does, and they, they are creating a world right here, in the tiny concrete garage, as if anything at all were possible between them.

Sybil tries not to shiver, whether for him or the fading day, she cannot tell, but he nevertheless notices, pulls back from the soft kisses he is bestowing, and looks at her with concern-filled eyes, big, dark irises. Branson pulls back reluctantly, sliding the metal door closed, and she does not say anything, does not know what she can say, as this tall, pale, beautiful man ambles across the concrete floor, towards her, for her, just like the dreams she was afraid to dream, in case they burst on the prickly reality. She is fully aware of her own desires, of her pulse throbbing away in the dark wine of her bloodstream, and inwardly curses his long legs, the warm tones of his arms, for stoppering her tongue so, for... this.

"You're responsible." It's barely more than a whisper, but she's said it nonetheless. Branson looks at her, and she's sure his eyes pale momentarily, before he steps up decisively, closing the gap he left in her personal space. The gap she was unaware existed, until now.

"I said, that you are entirely responsible."

Sybil holds out for as long as humanly possible, waiting for his response, before her lips begin to curve, and her slender body pushes into his, his cheek against hers, she whispers,

"You are responsible for my dreams... For every colour the world turns when you drive me fast in the car... and for my sanity."

Though she isn't sure either of them know what she means by sanity, in that moment she sees how he drops his head into her neck, both sees and feels the lack of boundaries, of barriers between them. And feels nothing wrong. As if they were both just consciousness, and she could keep him forever.

"You will be the death of me" He whispers.

No names. No title. She is floating in his arms, invisible between the grim, dull blocks of what she calls reality, the time she spends alone and lonely without him. Branson begins to notice the little things as he takes up his gentle exploration once more, the way her throat turns pink as he kisses it, the thickness of her hair, and the pale of the skin beneath it. His mind is spinning in time to her breath, the tiny moans she makes as his hands find purchase on her soft frame, her skirt sliding against his legs as he longs for the friction of her skin, to add fuel to the heat of her body with his own, to simply be. And as he winds his hands across the loose fabric of her blouse, leaving a flushed trail upon her skin, he feels no wrong. And he is breathless, yet exultant.

Sybil feels his hands on her, the strength and affection implicit in all his movements, and she wonders if the pinpricks she feels every time he touches her, (for she has never been touched like this before, not ever) are beneath his skin, lending their electricity to her, golden sparks. She expected the world to be black behind her eyelids, but the sheer joy of Branson's mouth on hers is enough to spark off a glittering spectrum across the circles of her mind, to clutch his thin shirt and pull him against her. Thinking is becoming tiresome. She's not close enough, needing to feel as though she could drown in his rough skin, soft mouth, and she has an urge to open his shirt and pull herself inside, to merge with him until it was impossible to tell between them, to prise them apart...

"Sybil... Lady SYBIL!"

The shout, clipped by a soft accent, jolts them. Spinning, straightening, Branson jumps away from his lady as though he's on fire. Sybil registers the high, clear calling, running her hands across the cold chiffon and pushing her way towards the door, before anyone can enter and see Branson, his blue eyes burning just a few feet away from her, can see the way his lips are parted hungrily and the faint pink marks her nails have left on his throat. She sees him rub them, gently, his eyes locked on her.

"Go. Quickly."

She does not need to be told twice.