Just his name passing her lips is enough to gird him into action. He sets down the First Folio, and scoots his chair so that it abuts hers. With his knees splayed wide to either side of his seat, he leans forward and places a hand on the back of her chair, shoving his face into hers. “Forget trying to sway me and answer me this instead: what is this… unnatural hold you seem to have over me?”
Their eyes meet and her breath catches. “I should ask you the same thing.”
As if drawn forward against his will, he closes in on her. “I think I get it. You’re her, aren’t you? You’re the Muse of fire.” His heavy-lidded gaze drops to her mouth again. "My Muse."
Muse? Is he perhaps speaking of the opening line from Henry V – that unknown inspiration the Chorus cries out for, which they believe will save their play? Her eyes dart to the open book on the table, and she sees that, yes, it is opened to that exact first page of the story.
“Are you saying I’m your… salvation?”
She means it as a halfhearted joke, but the serious, concentrated look on his face has her reconsidering a smile.
"Maybe. Probably," he replies. "I’m not sure. I only know this… what we’re doing is the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done." - Where Two Raging Fires Meet