"you look beautiful"
In one of those seconds that feels like an eternity, Ritanelle wonders whether her gown is having the intended effect.
Oh, she knows she looks fantastic—she’s all in midnight-blue silk and gold, high-necked in front but plunging to her waist in the back, two long slits flashing silk stockings as she descends the stairs—but that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s working for Avery. This thing between them is so new, so fragile, she’s afraid to hold it too tightly.
(Her! Afraid! She’s never been afraid of love or sex in her life, but Avery is different. Avery was her friend first. Is her friend still. Now that she knows the taste of his smile, she can’t bear to think about losing it.)
Avery is waiting at the foot of the stairs. He looks incredible, of course; no armor for him tonight, as G’raha Tia insisted they celebrate saving the First in style. Instead it’s tall boots, a silk waistcoat, gold trim on his coat. His shirt is an ivory that makes his olive skin glow. The knife at his belt (because he’s Ishgardian, of course he has a knife) has a sapphire the size of her thumbnail in the hilt. They didn’t plan their outfits together, but he’s still dressed to match and gods, she loves him so much it hurts.
And she doesn’t need to worry about her reception after all, because he’s staring at her like she’s put the moon in the sky. “My lady,” he starts. Stops, swallowing visibly. “I—you…”
She can’t help but grin, sweeping down the rest of the steps as quickly as her heels will allow to execute a quick, wholly unnecessary twirl to show off the back of her outfit. What there is of it, anyway: a fall of silk skirts and an expanse of bare skin, her serpent-and-thorns tattoo shining like moonlight. Her ears twitch at his sharp inhale; when she looks up at him again, there’s color in his cheeks. “Well?”
It’s light, teasing, because the night hasn’t even started yet and she can’t fluster him half to death before they’ve had at least one dance. But at her words he seems to claw back some composure, because he steps forward, takes her gloved hand in his, and presses a kiss to her knuckles that positively crackles all the way to her spine. “Miss Rita,” he murmurs. “You look beautiful.”
She may briefly forget to breathe. “I bet you say that to all th’ pretty young maidens,” she blurts out, horribly conscious of the prickly red blush crawling up her face.
His violet eyes glitter as he straightens to meet her gaze. “No,” he says simply. “Only you.”
The next few seconds stretch out in a ruthless procession of logical statements. If he keeps looking at her like that, she is going to kiss him. If she starts kissing him, she is going to want to keep at it. If she pulls him back up the stairs, they are going to be entirely late for their own party and she will quite literally never hear the end of it from Shtola. The only conclusion is that she really should pull away. Now. Before all those events come to pass.
But Avery’s lips curve in a smile that says he knows the effect he’s having on her (when did he get smooth? Was this always there, lurking beneath years of job-induced depression?) and so she really cannot be blamed for taking a step forward and letting him tug her close, his gloved hand on the small of her bare back like a brand just below where the thorns of her tattoo end. She slides a hand up into his loose burgundy curls, watching the way his eyes darken in response. “You know,” she breathes, “the lady I bought this lipstick from swears it’ll never come off, but I think that’s a hypothesis deserves testing.”
She can feel his heart kick in his chest. “Well,” he murmurs, “you know that a knight of Ishgard lives to serve.”
They are late. When they stride in, Rita’s hair a little ruffled and Avery trying unsuccessfully to salvage his wrinkled cravat, Shtola threatens to turn them both into toads.
It’s worth it.
