[Zenyatta has never been rocked before. The sensation is strange, almost giddy- it is what parents do for beloved children in distress, he thinks, and though he is scarcely a child there is still something peaceful about being soothed like one.

Like dancers they separate, shift, and return to one another on the sofa. The place where Angela's lips have invisibly marked him is still barely warm from her body.]

I am not sure. Perhaps it would be wrong to call it a trip or stumble. That implies accident. [He sighs softly, leaning into her shoulders and lacing his arm through hers. At this rate they'll be a tangle of limbs before the conversation is over.] He has warned me that he will hurt me, though I cannot believe that. But I suppose the fault would be mine, if it were to happen.