It wasn’t expected, but it felt justifiable somehow. That’s what Giselle concluded somewhere between the invitation and the minutes leading up to Braxton’s arrival— her thoughts running back to him at the most irrelevant, inexplainable moments was indeed not expected, but justifiable in so many ways.
Why wouldn’t she think about him? He was a dear friend. Someone she cared about, valued, wished well. In many ways, it would be more odd if she didn’t think about him, rude in fact. Justifying it was easier than she would have thought, just like thinking about him a lot was easier than she thought as well. What was less clear and much harder to explain was that other thing— the slight flutter, the tingle that came with it, the hint of butterflies when she thought of him. That… was new.
How to navigate it was a mystery still, and she discovered nerves slightly frazzled as she slipped into the red dress that had been hanging on the back of her door for who knows how long, carefully dry-cleaned from some event she couldn’t even remember— probably not a very important one anyway, begging to be used for something special. She reminded herself as she glanced at her reflection in the mirror that this might not be special… that this might just be a friend helping out another friend.
And yet still she tried her best to clean up nicely. To, at the very least, look like she could be accompanying Mr. Bond, and not just anybody. Raven hair pinned back, lashes curled and lips painted, a breath deflated her lungs when the sound of knuckles against wood billowed through the small space. Slipping into the heels waiting for her by the bed, she grabbed her purse and went for the door with her heart in her throat for yet another inexplainable reason.
It wasn’t the crisp cold Bellevue wind that knocked the wind out of her, but she almost hoped it seemed believable that it was— no, he’d brought it. If there ever was a handsome James Bond 2.0 version, this was it. Him. The moment seemed almost suspended in time, her hand on the knob still, her eyes wide as she watched him watch her, and maybe vice versa. Warmth flushed her cheeks and she let a soft laugh go at his clipped sentences, unsure whether she could’ve got much out herself at this point to be fair.
“You’re not the only one,” She said, not sure any train of her thoughts had been more lost than her current one. “But really,” She began and smiled secretly, “You look very handsome.” The flutter was back tenfold, making it harder for her to swallow, pushing her gaze to her hand before she turned and stepped outside next to him.
“Ready?” She whispered, looking up at him.
He just wanted to look at her. Spend the rest of the night standing there, right in that doorway, let constellations bounce off his set of cognac hues, heaven not so far anymore. Him looking at her, her looking at him: a moment hung and stalled, humid and slow, a sluggish summer moment punctured in the heart of deep winter, it felt. Hot. Languid. Remembered. He’d pocket this moment, now, shared between the two of them–– on glum days, the bad ones he had and hid, where getting out of bed felt like a marathon and his own dreary existence felt like the whole damn olympics, he’d remember her. Looking at him. Looking at her. This, he’d remember, was what it felt to be alive.
“So do you,” He breathed, voice low and husky, eyes still as glazed as the moony wax of his lazy smile. It took him a second to realize he had just called her handsome, and with that came a series of rapid blinks and fast-paced speech, “––Beautiful. I meant beautiful,” A large hand ran through his thick mane, nervously, as he tried to covet his bearings, “That’s the word I was looking for– maybe about four hundred others meaning the same thing, but beautiful, Elle. Beautiful...” He trailed off, shaking his head, a smile cracking the marble of his chiseled mien, clearly laughing at himself; but never, did the sable of pupils leave the lure of hers, “God help me,” Or better yet, don’t, he thought mutely. He shifted in his footing, a hand, rising to grip the framing above their heads, his torso leaning into her, “I'm talking too much,” He grinned stupidly, eyes heavy lidded.
Her own voice came then–– mellifluous, tantalizing, and bearing heat at the back of his neck. The sound of her whisper, zephyr-like and breathy, did things to him: had warmth spread in his abdomen, knots tangling in the pit of his stomach, just. like. that. Deep breathing was the only remedy to his interim sin; in, out, get a hold of yourself Brax, she’s your friend. He nodded to her then, straightened up, arm dropping down just to offer for her to take, “Ready,” He whispered in an echo, unable to help it.
The drive there was spent as classic Braxton and Giselle, save his set of sweaty palms and thundering heart, talking and laughing each others wits off, and he found himself tempted to just ditch the Gala and take her somewhere else: a dinner, a movie maybe, a world of white noise behind them. But he had promised her a night of opulence, free champagne and mocking the one percent, and if Braxton Andrews was anything, he was a man of his word–– and it would be damn sin to waste that red dress on The Lego Movie.
"Ready?” He asked her, the word feeling like theirs tonight, the secret smile and melt of his dark eyes of the same charge. They were exiting coat check for the ballroom, following the trail of couples before them, marble beneath their feet and Swarovski chandeliers above their heads in the grand hall of The Fairmont; valet and red carpet in their wake as filet mignon, Hermes, and the leering gaze of the wealthy beckoned them near. Despite Giselle’s way of putting him at ease – a gift unweathered by long years and longer distances – he was nervous. Tense. He had never liked this lot, and they never liked him. They found him unrefined, and vapid; said it to his face too as a child, when he’d lay a punch on one of their spoiled sons for saying something degrading. And as the striking duo made their way into the ballroom, he could feel eyes on his back, mutely begging the question, ‘what is he doing here?’
He prayed Giselle couldn’t feel them too.
So he searched for hers instead. Shrouded by crowd of lengthy lashes, there they were–– umber, deep, endless, accented with prominent cheekbones that only stalled at the swell of a full mouth. He was mapping out her face with the lap of pupils, shamelessly so, and in that moment, his wish for white noise was granted: no one but the two of them existed, in that room and the world. Heat pooled form the top of his head to the ends of his toes, his pulse quickened, and suddenly, he wasn’t worried about a thing. “Hey,” He whispered, quiet yet assertive, garnering her attention. He felt his face lure closer, closer, and down–– lips edged at her ear, hot air down her neck, breath misting at her skin, “Thank you, for being here,” His voice was low, husky, “... I just can’t stop–” thinking about you, he was going to say, before he was cut off by the static of a podium, telling everyone to settle at their respective seats, and he was cut short; took a step back, skin flushed and eyes hooded, before a faint smile fount his countenance again and he gestured to their table nearby, “... After you–”
