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Her head rested against his shoulder, her skin warmed his through his shirt. The music wafted through the kitchen on a midnight breeze. The sound was slow and quiet and barely there, but that didn’t stop them from finding the rhythm, from moving with it. The chin that was sharp on his shoulder turned into a smooth forehead. The tense muscles in her back relaxed. The stubborn hand, stiff by her side, relented to his.
A new old house, loved and lived, part of a new timeline. An early morning. A makeshift table formed of cardboard boxes. Paper plates loaded with breakfast takeout - pastries, hot sandwiches, fruit, muffins.
Across from Lucien, Elain would not meet his gaze. She opted for a quiet side conversation with Feyre rather than be pulled in with the rest of the group.
There was no sound, not even the swish of clothes, as they moved so slowly around the room. Another breeze found its way through the open window, swirled around them, played with their hair and tickled their skin. The kitchen tile was cold on her bare feet, so she stood on his sock-clad ones. Even then, the top of her head barely reached his chin. He did not startle at the extra weight, he did not wobble; he only continued to sway.
Bubbly chatter rang through the house. It had been too long since it had held so much cheer, so much laughter. The house was happy, it looked forward to future late-night dances and mid-morning breakfasts. The food itself was nothing too special, but the meal was pleasant; simple, and joyous. If only she would just look at him.
At some point, her arms had crept around his middle. She did not give them permission to do so, but she couldn’t bring herself to remove them. One of his hands rested at her waist, the other hand cradled hers, his thumb massaging small circles into her skin. There was no instigating when the hand on her waist slipped to the small of her back, no sneaky attempt to do anything more than hold her closer.
When their breakfast atop moving boxes came to an end and everyone had turned their attention to unpacking said boxes, he followed her into the kitchen, taking used disposable dishes and climbing through the maze of moving supplies.
He looked down at her, drinking in every detail. Feathery lashes resting against round, rosy cheeks. Honey brown hair tumbling down her back. Full, pink lips, relaxed. No smile, but no frown. Not a single line of stress to be found upon her face.
He dropped his chin, rested it on the crown of her head. Her hair smelled sweet, wild, fresh. No scented products, just her.
Somewhere, a dog barked. Static interfered with the music. A car alarm went off. But they ignored it all, ignored everything but each other, and continued their slow, lazy dance.
The morning fog began to burn off. Mist dissipated, roofs steamed, sun shone. Golden light cut through the wide kitchen window, highlighted chips in the tile, shaded splits in the wood. His hair caught fire in the buttery light, hers became molten honey. She faced outside, paper plates forgotten beside her.
“Elain,” Lucien’s voice was quiet, only for her to hear. “What are we doing?”
He watched her throat work as she swallowed thickly. “We’re helping Feyre and Rhys move in, get settled.”
Lucien stepped closer, rested his hands on the counter, bracketed her between his arms. He rested his chin on her head. “I meant the question in terms of you and I.”
Her face turned up towards his. Chocolate eyes met russet and gold. Her arms slithered from his waist, came up to embrace his neck. She stepped off his feet. Raised to her tiptoes. Stared at his lips. Examined his eyes. Traced his scar. Brought her lips up to his. Kissed him softly and slowly and sweetly.
And still, they swayed.
She turned to face him, still ensnared by his arms. “I do not understand.” Her eyes refused to meet his.
“Well you see,” He leaned in, tried to catch her line of sight. “I think we danced last night.”
She gave a noncommittal hum.
“And,” he rasped. “I think we kissed last night. But, I could be wrong. So tell me, Elain, what do you think? What did we do? What are we doing?”
Her hands ran through his long, fiery locks. So gentle, so soft. She loosened his tangles, smoothed it to silk, uncovered his face. Their lips did not part, their bodies did not still. The music went on, their feet kept moving, and their arms held tighter.
“I think…” Her eyes flicked to his, then back down. “That we did dance last night.”
One corner of his mouth hitched up. “Mm-hmm.”
“I also think,” Her voice was little more than a whisper; hard to hear over the laughter of their family and friends in the sitting room. “That we kissed last night.”
The radio was cut off. Next door, there was a distant sound of murmured goodnights, of windows shutting and doors closing.
Their lips parted, their eyes opened, she let herself down from her tiptoes. Slowly, reluctantly, they eased away. She walked past him for the stairs, he walked past her for the living room; hands pulling apart at the last second. They glanced one last time, both blushing, hearts aching, before leaving through different doorways.
Outside the window, birds chirped. Down the street, children laughed and played beneath the rising sun. Inside, they drew closer.
“Well, I’m glad it wasn’t a dream then.” He bent over, got down to eye level. “Are you glad too?”
At her hesitation, Lucien began to pull his arms away. Elain pulled them back, held both of his hands and dragged him closer than he had been before. At last, she met his gaze. Her eyes wandered over his face, absorbed the sight of his mismatched eyes, his silky hair, his worried brow, his half smile.
“Yes, Lucien.” Elain’s voice, softer than flower petals, finally directed at him. “I am very glad.”