They'd already turned heads in their gala finery, but now he can see the distinctive watchful eye of phone cameras being raised and trained on them. Candid shots and videos, in comparison to the press-ready flashes at the museum. It's even more reason to keep his blue eyes trained on Allison's face: trying not to think about all the photographic evidence there'll be of the two Hargreeves having slipped away from the gala; trying not to think about how that trail of evidence might wind up back in the Monocle's lap; what sort of talking-to he might or might nor receive back home, later, afterwards. Luther's always been terrible at living in the moment — he tends to get lost in his thoughts, in plans and contingencies and fallbacks — so he has to keep reminding himself to not think about later.

(About tomorrow. About how there's a limited span on the amount of time they have together. About how the hours are shrinking and shrinking, the more that time goes on.)

His steps so far are perfect, like the dance has been taken right from the instructional record or the illustrative diagrams, but it has something of a stern Prussian ballroom to it: it's meter-perfect but emotionless as a metronome.

But then Allison's arm shifts, curves even closer around the broad span of his shoulders — her fingers splayed against the nape of his neck — and the touch sends a convulsive shiver down Luther's spine, a ripple that melts him into her touch as it goes. The stiff cage of his arms loosens, and his feet start to stray slightly from the textbook. Improvising, going off-book, and he turns her in a slow spin across the courtyard and then back towards him — and she can see his stern, studious expression softening, too, a small smile flickering on his mouth.