A/N: I want to make this clear: I am not a ballet dancer. Forgive me if I've messed up one of these phrases in some way.

She held his hand through the entire performance, excitedly squeezing it as the two lead dancers crossed each other on the stage, a simultaneous grand jeté in the air. She caressed his fingers with hers, enthralled and breathless at the intimacy of the dancers as they tiptoed back to each other and intertwined their bodies together. The entire theatre was silent but for the soft cough of a child farther in the balcony, the quiet hum of the violins, and the imagined soft pitter-patter of pointed chassés on painted wooden stage. She could hear her hearts pounding in her ears above the music, and could tell his were hammering from a brush of her fingers against his pulse point.

Later they reenacted the dancers' performance, albeit with less grace and more noise. She felt his muscles ripple under her palms, her wandering fingers doing more than caressing and in more places than his pulse point. They performed a pas de deux of their own, mostly soft and tender, sometimes too rough for the violins still playing in her head. A tempo more fit for the racing of their hearts.

When it was over, she turned en dedans into his chest, resting her wild curls on it and intertwining their fingers back together.