Somewhere behind them, there's the click of cameras taking pictures and the little girl is delighted, too, but he doesn't even notice, doesn't realise. It's his self-control loosening as they dance to a pop song rather than strictly-metered classical, and so other unscripted moves start to slip in: silly cheeky things, a sashay right out of Pulp Fiction, doing the twist, biting back an obvious laugh as their faces light up.

And after a moment, impulsively, Luther just leans down and scoops her up into his arms with a dramatic spin, his stance surefooted on the stones, unflinching at the added weight. He lifts her like she's a feather; like she can fly. It's yet more close contact like they'd had in the cab, except now it's his arms bracketed under her thighs, her hips, hugging the edge of her gown. He whirls her around in a flurry of voluminous fabric, both of them near-drowning in it, before he sets her delicately back down on the ground just as the song peters out.

His hands are still settled on Allison's hips, and he's looking down at her, and their faces are too close. There's absolutely zero chance that the physical strain could've made his heart work double-time, but there's a hitch in his lungs regardless. (It's not the physical strain.)

He's looking too long at her, at the laughing twist to her mouth, the bright light in her eyes, and—


And the spell is broken when he hears a few people around them clap. Luther seems to jolt awake, and takes a genteel step back and away from her. He has to resist the urge to take a bow, and maybe salute.

Actually, fuck it. He does turn to their inadvertent audience and executes a stiff bow. The girl who asked about Cinderella's ball is practically aglow.

(So is he. So is Allison.)