Luther looks down at her, his own heart in his throat, swallowing the words that want to come tripping out: I thought you'd never ask. Yes. Always.
What does come out in the end, after a heartbeat that lasts a little too long, is wry and just a touch playful: "Yeah. I guess I could squeeze you in."
As if she wasn't the first thing he'd asked about in the letter, the first place where all his thoughts had collapsed the first moment he knew he might be in Los Angeles. The entire rest of this museum and its glitterati and cultural people-of-interest simply don't exist anymore; hadn't, since the moment they'd finally managed to gravitate back to each others' sides and strike up a conversation. He can't actually remember if there was anyone else on the shortlist Dad gave him, the contacts he was supposed to track down and chat up, but what he's already accomplished tonight will have to do.
Because nothing else matters.
He squeezes her hand again, carefully-measured this time to just be the faintest application of pressure, and then he lets Allison start steering him back through the museum. And even as they start ducking towards the exit, there's one regretful thought buzzing in his skull. He doesn't want to say it. Saying it aloud makes it painfully real, but he has to say it:
"Just so you know, uh, this is my last day in town. My flight back is in the morning."
He doesn't want to think about it, but their pool of available time together is measurable. Shrinking, like Cinderella counting down to midnight. That cup of coffee he'd wanted to get, it won't be possible tomorrow. Each minute is hopelessly precious.
no subject
I thought you'd never ask.
Yes. Always.
What does come out in the end, after a heartbeat that lasts a little too long, is wry and just a touch playful: "Yeah. I guess I could squeeze you in."
As if she wasn't the first thing he'd asked about in the letter, the first place where all his thoughts had collapsed the first moment he knew he might be in Los Angeles. The entire rest of this museum and its glitterati and cultural people-of-interest simply don't exist anymore; hadn't, since the moment they'd finally managed to gravitate back to each others' sides and strike up a conversation. He can't actually remember if there was anyone else on the shortlist Dad gave him, the contacts he was supposed to track down and chat up, but what he's already accomplished tonight will have to do.
Because nothing else matters.
He squeezes her hand again, carefully-measured this time to just be the faintest application of pressure, and then he lets Allison start steering him back through the museum. And even as they start ducking towards the exit, there's one regretful thought buzzing in his skull. He doesn't want to say it. Saying it aloud makes it painfully real, but he has to say it:
"Just so you know, uh, this is my last day in town. My flight back is in the morning."
He doesn't want to think about it, but their pool of available time together is measurable. Shrinking, like Cinderella counting down to midnight. That cup of coffee he'd wanted to get, it won't be possible tomorrow. Each minute is hopelessly precious.