(drabble) Helena and Elle. "Kiss in the kitchen like it's a dance floor. I couldn't want you any more tonight."
kiss in the kitchen like it’s a dance floor. i couldn’t want you anymore tonight
The first time Elle meets Helena is at Kelly and Becca’s engagement party. Elle had spilled champagne all over her top, and Helena had been the only one to help her clean up. It’d been nice. They’d talked, made bets over who’d give the first drunken speech (“Will, obviously.” “I don’t know, Allie and Harry just broke up, and I’m pretty sure Harry pre-gamed before this.”) and, at the end of the night Helena had slipped Elle her phone number.
Elle’s surprised they didn’t meet sooner, wonders if they did meet, forever ago, at some party or event or coffee shop. She doubts it, though. She’d remember Helena.
The second time they run into each other is three months later is at a housewarming party Harry and Allie are hosting.
“How long until they break up again?” Helena had said, coming to stand beside Elle, a plate of food in one hand. It’d been so casual, and a flutter appeared in Elle’s chest, faint but there. She took a deep breath.
“Harry heard Cassandra ask that same exact thing, so they might just get married to spite her.”
Helena snorts, and Elle smiles, and they spend the rest of the night sitting on the couch talking, promises made for something like this to happen again soon.
And so the third time they’re together is less than a week later and finally on purpose at some small bakery Elle worked at her freshman year of college. They pick up a box of pastries, and Helena invites Elle over to her place.
“It’s just down the block. You don’t have to if you already have plans but--”
“No,” Elle cuts in, quick, almost frantic. “I don’t have plans, I mean. I’d love to go over to your place.”
Helena smiles, something soft, there, undeniably there, but also… “Okay.”
In Helena’s kitchen, in front of a half empty box of pastries on the counter next to a bottle wine that was opened and then forgotten about, in front of a sink that keeps dripping and a fridge that rattles the cabinets next to it, Elle kisses Helena, all in a rush, quiet after, apologetic.
“That was nice,” Helena says, leaning slightly on the counter. There’s a crumb on her lip from a chocolate croissant. Elle reaches to wipe it away. She tries to remember the last time she felt like this. She can’t.
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