A/N: I do not own Bones. Suing me would be a poor use of time and money.

There is a balance. It's a delicate balance. She's taken her cues from him over the years, and they've become quite adept at dancing around his line, but never crossing it. They've come so far that she can even use his metaphor to describe their situation, despite the fact that she finds it trite and inadequate. She doesn't want them to become another cliché.

At the park, by the carousel, he told her they couldn't cross this line he described. She didn't tell him she wouldn't ever even consider it, because she'd always been a terrible liar. She didn't make him elaborate about why he felt they were in danger of becoming something they couldn't deal with.

She didn't ask him to show her how to make love, even after his lecture on the matter made her shiver.

She knows she isn't allowed to ask him what exactly he meant when he told her that "this is worth it" as they clinked their beers together after solving yet another terrible crime. They'd been talking about love, but she didn't press him.

She could tell herself she's not entranced by him, could insist that he probably doesn't return her feelings. She could spout out every question and challenge that pops into her mind, as she did when she first met him. But some things are too precious to be ruined with her rationales and convenient social ineptitude.

So she takes his hand and dances with him, around and around his proverbial line. They may hover over it, but that moment of suspension, when he spins her too wildly across the dance floor or she tries to lead just a bit too aggressively; it never lasts long. One of them always brings their dance back to the safe side of the line.

She could tell herself that they are still not ready for where this will lead. She could pretend there aren't a thousand confessions hanging on the tip of her tongue every time he speaks in his low, raspy voice. She could pretend she doesn't get butterflies when she sees him, could pretend she still doesn't believe in love. She could keep being his platonic dance partner, forever engaged in a deliciously ambiguous waltz. She's really quite good at being clueless. She could pretend she does not see his looks, feel his passion for her, want his hands in hers.

But she is so tired of telling him she doesn't know what it means.