"I can see why."
Her voice had gone slightly breathless. He filed that information away for later—the knowledge that proximity affected her, that she wasn't as immune to this as she pretended.
"The man leads," he continued, keeping his tone light. "Which means I'm going to move, and you're going to let me move you. Not follow me—that implies you're always a step behind. Let me. Trust that I know where we're going, and let your body respond."
"That sounds easy in theory."
"Most things do." He smiled. "Ready to try?"
She swallowed. "I suppose."
"Such enthusiasm."
"You get what you get."
He laughed—he couldn't help it—and some of the tension bled from her shoulders. Better. He could work with better.
"Alright. I'm going to count out loud at first, so you can feel the rhythm. When you've got it, I'll stop. One-two-three, step back on one, to the side on two, feet together on three. Simple as breathing."
"I sometimes forget to breathe."
"I'll remind you."
He started moving.
The first few steps were a disaster—not unexpected, but still somewhat impressive in their chaos. She stepped on his hoof almost immediately, then overcorrected and nearly fell, then tried so hard to anticipate his next move that she went the wrong direction entirely.
"Sorry," she gasped. "I'm sorry, I told you I was terrible?—"
"Stop apologizing." He tightened his grip on her back, steadying her. "And stop thinking. You're trying to predict what I'm going to do, but you can't, because you don't know yet. You have to feel it."
"Feel what?"
"This." He pressed his palm more firmly against her spine. "When I move, I move you. Not with my feet—with my hand. My body. The pressure changes before I step. Can you feel that?"
She frowned in concentration. He shifted his weight slightly to the right, and?—
"Oh." Her eyes widened. "Oh, I felt that."
"Good. Now let it happen. Don't think about your feet. Think about my hand."
They started again.
It was still clumsy—she was too tense, her movements too jerky, her brain clearly working overtime to process every sensation—but there were moments. Brief flashes where she stopped fighting him and simply moved, her body responding to his guidance like water flowing downhill. Natural. Easy.
*There,* he thought each time it happened. *That's it. That's what you're capable of.*
"You're counting in your head," he said after they'd been at it for several minutes.
"How can you tell?"
"Your lips move."
She pressed them together self-consciously. "I can't help it. If I don't count, I lose track."
"You don't need to keep track. I'm keeping track." He pulled her fractionally closer, eliminating some of the distance between them. "Let go of the numbers. Just feel the pattern. One-two-three is the shape of a triangle. Up, over, home. Up, over, home. Your body knows triangles."
"My body knows how to trip over its own feet."
