He follows her instructions in a dreamy trance. Looking as she invites him, watching the way her fingers splay against her chest (and wondering, with twinge of guilt, how they might look against her with skin bare, leaning over him--) And then around again, skirts whirling, anklet chiming. The moment she comes into his space he's paralyzed, staring up at her, his gray eyes fond and longing and -

Get ahold of yourself, Admiral, he admonishes himself. She is not yours and never will be. And what a cruel concept that would seem to her, probably. Being someone else's. Miles longs so desperately to be someone else's that he hurts but - he can't expect it of anyone else. And he can't expect anyone to desire it of him.

But god does he want it in this moment. Especially when she pauses at the end, gesturing for him to grab her. He gives her a questioning look - really, are you sure? - before he gently reaches forward, taking her hands. Pulling her down to him. And then - holding there, cheeks flushed, staring up at her.

"It's a lovely dance," he murmurs. "I'm very fond."