@stellascriptum said : elain steps through the threshold of the kitchen's dutch door, flushed by the midday sun. it suits her fair skin, which also wears the result of her gardening efforts —- specks of dirt at her cheekbones, mud at her ankles. all are worn proudly, for productivity suited her. the rose-kissed blush that carried all the way to her chest, however, had everything to do with the male she'd very nearly just stumbled into. the sun, in all of its golden glow, seemed to have painted him in a similar kindness; she hadn't been prepared to discover such a truth, and so closely. " oh! " she blinks, " —- i'm sorry, i ... " was avoiding company. " i wasn't expecting anyone to be here ... ! "
Lucien had not expected anyone to stumble into the kitchen —especially Elain. The town house, in his mind, had been a safe sort of emptiness for their meeting—quiet halls, sun-warmed stone, and it would lack the Archeron that wished to avoid him. He knew that Feyre, Rhys and Nxy lived in the River House, and with an easy guess...that included Elain. Feyre was the one who had sent him here, spouting that he should make himself comfortable as he waited. And waited. He suspected now that their tardiness had nothing to do with the babe and everything to do with her scheming. Had she sent Elain here too under the guise of 'Lucien will be at the River House' compared to his 'Elain will be at the River house...best to meet at the townhouse'
Boil him alive, this was awkward.
Lucien stood at the kitchen door with a rolling pin in hand, dough half-flattened on the counter behind him, a dusting of flour across the dark wood—and, evidently, across his person as well. A smear lingered high on his cheek, just beneath the edge of his scarred eye, where he had likely brushed at something and only made it worse. He had ventured closer to the door at a sound, and instead of Feyre, found Elain Archeron framed in the doorway, sunlight catching in her hair, her skin flushed from the warmth outside. For a moment, he simply stared at her. Not rudely, but as if his mind had stalled somewhere between recognition and comprehension. She glowed, with dirt freckles and a pink flush from the sun. Beautiful did not even come close to describing her.
And she was looking at him. Oh. Lucien blinked once, then again, as if that might correct the situation—might return them both to wherever they had been before this collision. It did not. “Ah,” he said, entirely unhelpfully. She was certainly trying to avoid...well, him. The rolling pin remained in his hand. He set it down with a quiet thunk, as though remembering only then that it existed. His gaze flicked briefly to the flour-dusted counter, to his hands, to the state of himself—before returning, inevitably, to her. He felt unusually shy, unkempt in a way he usually never was in front of her. In a manner of speaking, undone.
“I might say the same,” he replied, voice a touch rougher than usual, caught somewhere between polite composure and something more off-balance. “I was under the impression this place was… empty.” His palms held up, emphasizing he in no way intended to intrude upon her. "...I was making tea when I saw the ingredients for some sugar cookies, I was led astray waiting for your sister to show up"
