A/N: A one-shot where Rafael Barba learns from his much younger girlfriend to do exactly what the title says: shut up, dance, and let go. Written as a fluff piece for a friend who was having a garbage day. :)

"I can't believe I let you drag me here," he said as they stepped through the doors of Woodsman, the newest overpriced bar in Chelsea. With its overly dim lighting and ridiculously named drinks (Killin' Thyme? Really?), Rafael Barba was not the type of guy who fit in here, nor did he want to be. But Sarah, the girl he had recently begun seeing, was a blogger for Eater NY, so she had to visit it for work. Besides, when she looked at him with those beautiful hazel eyes, there was no way he could resist. He could, however, complain.

"Oh, come on, Raf. One drink. I need to be able to write about it. Besides, you don't want me to be in here alone, do you? Some younger, hotter guy might try to pick me up," she said, giving him a playful wink.

"Sarah, you may be fifteen years younger than me, but think about it. It's Chelsea. The only thing these guys are going to want from you is me." They stepped down three small stairs and made their way toward the bar, which took up the vast majority of the space. Despite the relatively early hour, the space was already starting to fill up, mostly with attractive men in their mid-twenties. Sarah lunged for two adjacent chairs that were miraculously available, and Rafael draped his coat over the back of his. Before he could pull Sarah's out for her, she was already halfway down the bar, trying to get the bartender's attention. Apparently, she didn't care to write about how long they had to wait for drinks as much as she cared about actually having a drink. He hoped she would at least order him a plain scotch.

While he waited for her to come back, he turned his head in all directions, taking in the space. True to the name, there appeared to be an outdoorsy theme to this bar, with deer heads mounted on the walls. Dear God, he thought. I hope those are fake. He hadn't noticed it when they walked in but the floors were actually cherry-wood plank as well. The bar itself was built with stone and was topped with thick, dark oak, polished to a high shine. The lights that hung overhead were actually lanterns, and on the bar were mason jars with candles in them. At least everything looked expensive and put together, if a little overdone.

Just then, Sarah returned, carrying a tumbler glass of honey-colored liquid and something else in a tall glass with strawberries in it that could not possibly be for him. She set them down in front of him, and he noticed there was a damp spot on her eggplant wrap top where she had been cradling the drinks. She followed his gaze and smiled. "Okay, so I'm a hot mess. Just makes you look even better."

"I didn't say a word," he said, taking the drink that he assumed was for him and sipping it gingerly. "Well, at least the drinks are strong."

She leaned on the bar and sipped her own cocktail. "Wasn't actually that hard to get that bartender's attention, either. I probably could have waited, but I know you want to get in and out."

"Hey, I know this is for your job," he said.

"But just because it's work doesn't mean it can't be fun, right?" She cocked her head. "Besides, I promise to be very, very grateful." She put a hand on his shoulder and a kiss behind his ear. A distinct warmth went through his body and stopped right in his groin. But, despite the darkness of the bar, it was still a bar. In public. With a woman fifteen years his junior. And he was still the sex crimes A.D.A., who never wanted to put his personal life on display. He pulled away.

He heard her slight sigh next to his ear, but when he faced her, her eyes betrayed no frustration. "I'm sorry," he muttered.

They made it through the first round of drinks and made small talk, discussing their work weeks and trying to decide where to go for dinner later that evening. For their second round, he stuck with his usual scotch, while she ordered something with marshmallows. "This is really good," she said, pushing it toward him. "Want to try some?"

He eyed it suspiciously. It was creamy looking and apparently quite good, as she had made her way through half of it already. "Um," he said. "What's in it?"

"Booze," she replied. "And marshmallows."

"I think I'll stick with my scotch," he said. "But maybe next time." He tried to smile convincingly and took another long swig of his scotch.

Sarah's eyes never left him. "Raf? Do you even know how to turn it off?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Turn what off?"

"Adulthood."

"What do you mean? I'm forty years old. You're twenty-five. We're both adults. Maybe it's easier for you to ignore that because you're not an old man like me, but-"

"Oh, don't give me that bullshit, Raf. I am not going to let you pull rank on me just because you're were born a few years earlier. Just because we've reached the age of reason doesn't mean we always have to BE reasonable. Doesn't it exhaust you, always giving a shit what other people think?" She turned toward him, one arm on the bar, the other on her hip.

"I always HAVE to give a shit what other people think, Sarah," he said, finishing his drink and very nearly slamming the tumbler on the bar. "That's part of my job. I have to keep up this image, or—"

"Or what? You won't win cases? I don't think so. You're still you, even if you loosen up once in a while. It's not like you're going out driving drunk or hiring a prostitute. It's not going to make you look immoral or unethical if you're dating a younger woman who you kiss in front of people or if you drink something that isn't a 'grown up drink' like scotch or if you—"

Just then, the bar's auto-DJ started playing a song that fit the occasion so perfectly that Sarah couldn't have planned it better herself. Her eyes sparkled against the candles in the mason jars. She grabbed Rafael's arm and polished off her drink all in one fluid movement. He suspected that amount of liquor would hit her quickly, as she was his height but only about half his weight. Then again, maybe that was the point.

"What are you doing?" His eyes darted from her hand wrapped around his arm to her eyes and back. But she didn't say anything. She just pulled him away from the bar and toward the back of the room.

-Oh don't you dare look back, just keep your eyes on me-

They had been there much longer than they had originally planned, and by now, there were at least a dozen people on the small dance floor in the corner of the bar. In fact, by his estimation, the dance floor itself wasn't even intentional; it was more like a section of the bar where no seating had been placed and people just gathered to grind against each other. The logical part of his brain told him to pull away, but Sarah's hand on his wrist kept him there, moving forward, letting her lead him God knows where. "Sarah!" He knew she couldn't hear him over the bass of the music, but he kept trying. There were people squeezed around them, some gay, some straight, pressed together against the music, which was now starting to beat in a very dance-able rhythm. The autumn wind crept in through the patio space that was opened to the remainder of the bar, which at least made the close quarters somewhat bearable. He was suddenly very glad he had taken the time to roll up his sleeves earlier. She pushed people out of their way, shouldering through the crowd until she found what she apparently deemed an appropriate place to stop. Then, she turned to face him. He leaned into her, putting a hand on her hip. "Sarah," he shouted against her ear. "I can't do this! I haven't danced since college!"

"Then you'll just have to remember what it was like to be a college kid!" She laughed as the music played, and raised her arms above her head, waving them from side to side.

-We were victims of the night - The chemical, physical, kryptonite - Helpless to the bass and faded light - Oh, we were bound to get together - Bound to get together-

He had no idea what he was doing there. He had locked this part of himself away a long time ago, after he had become the straight-laced district attorney and stopped having a personal life. He didn't know how to move indiscriminately. He didn't know the way to release himself from conscious choices. Standing in the middle of the crowd, the only one not moving, he felt awkward. Sarah, on the other hand, moved with the carelessness that only a woman her age could, jumping in time with the crowd, twirling in place. She came around to face him, and he noticed a strand of her short, chestnut hair was caught in her glossed bottom lip. He pushed it back from her face, and she smiled, breathing heavily from the exertion.

-Deep in her eyes - I think I see the future - I realize this is my last chance - She took my arm - I don't know how it happened - We took the floor and she said-

"You're not moving!"

"I told you, I don't—"

-"Oh, don't you dare look back - Just keep your eyes on me." - I said, "You're holding back," - She said, "Shut up and dance with me!"-

She grabbed his hands and put them around her waist. Her lips curled into a smile and she threw her arms around his shoulders, pulling him into her body.

-This woman is my destiny - She said, "Ooooh-

"Yes, you do. Stop thinking. Just—"

-SHUT UP AND DANCE!-

She moved against him now, the beat guiding them, and before he knew it, his hips found a rhythm with hers. The music was fast, almost too fast to be comfortable for someone who hadn't so much as waltzed in a decade, but with Sarah guiding him, it felt natural. It was almost…fun. He felt the years melt away from him as he spun her in a circle. The sound of her laugh, the sight of her hair flying around her face, the way her palm looked in his, all of it reminded him of a time earlier in his life. When he would have been out at some dive in Boston with his fraternity brothers, staring at girls like Sarah, not having the courage or the confidence to talk to them. He would have talked himself out of it, assuming they wouldn't have anything in common or any reason to like him. Of course, he had already had this discussion with her, wondering why she liked him at all, especially given their age difference. Despite that, they had so many things in common—food, drinks, theatre, a love of crosswords. They were both bad at Jeopardy.

Suddenly, in the heat of the crowd and the rush of the dance, he realized that the reason he didn't want people to see them together had nothing to do with his professional reputation. It was that he didn't want people to think she was only with him for his money or that he was with her for her age. It was his pride, and only that. He cared too much what people thought of him, for all the wrong reasons, just as she said. Except right now, he didn't. He couldn't. He was too focused on the moment in front of him.

He may have been older. But Sarah was much wiser.

When the music ended and he pulled her in for the kiss he should have given her hours ago, he dipped her low and wound his fingers through her hair intensely. His lips were soft and tasted like scotch and the cherry Chapstick he was addicted to. She was stunned for a minute, but wasn't about to push him away, not even when the blood started to rush to her head. When he lifted her back up, she stared at him with raised brows. "I thought we didn't do PDA?"

He grinned impishly at her and pulled her close to him with one strong hand. "Since when do you care about what other people think?"