for a foreigner, you're such a wonder. ‎ ‎he could not understand you, not like he desired to, for he was contented just you being what you are without some things that he very much needed to know if he would let this journey drag on with you. ‎ ‎the night had been long—longer than he remembered, longer than it should have been. he had hunted for their meal, and tried to move on—but he couldn't shake that feeling. that silence surrounding us. he appreciates it, he do. but it's still what got him the most. not the words he can't say, but the ones that had been said and couldn't be taken back — but there's still more left unsaid, no? ‎ ‎“like this,” he murmurs, slowly taking your hand in his warm one and pulls you in—carefully, deliberately— making sure you see every move he makes. he watches you closely, kindly, with a quiet respect, searching for the answer in your eyes. consent not just to the dance practice—but to this. ‎ ‎and when you follow his lead, placing a hand against his chest, he falls silent for a long moment. his body stills, as if turned to stone, yet he listens— to the rhythm beneath your palm. he wraps an arm around your waist, hesitant and unsure, careful not to let his skin fully meet yours. as though even a touch might give away the secrets he's trying so hard to keep—and harder still, to deny. ‎ ‎the pad of his thumb grazes the soft skin between your thumb and index finger as he met your gaze—like the act itself won’t haunt him later. and it takes all his nerve to lift his voice above a whisper. “step on my foot, if you must.” ‎ ‎sincerity lingers at the edges of his words, gentle as your lips from this close—a sight he’d chase, even if meant being strapped to a comet. ‎ ‎“i’ll hold you.”