' ms. ral, would you like to dance? '
    soft elation peaks at her brow as she lays her hand in the palm of his / war torn and rugged. they pull across the lines of battle, stories sewn into skin of heights she could only wish to soar. theyâre the scars of a noble man, she thinks. someone the likes of her has no right to grace with her presence. the fall of her step is graceful, creaking gently as her stride covers the expanse of his office, music accompanying her gait from the swooping curves of the phonograph in the corner. itâs not uncommon, this sight. fed through late nights and a mutual weariness / tiptoeing across the edge of secrecy. comfort in one another is a luxury she is privileged to have.   â it would be my pleasure, commander.  â  and thereâs a tease to her voice, barely there, one she wouldnât dare equip under formal circumstances. but itâs just them now ; and maybe for a few moments of bliss they can pretend to be people they are not. for a few moments, they can be a man and a woman sharing each otherâs company, twirling and waltzing over a worn office rug and forget about the scars they share.
