Their hands brush briefly near the beginning of the night, and this is the tipping point.
(It's a tipping point within another tipping point, really, inside another tipping point—but nuance is not their strong point at the moment.)
It breaks the ice—the ice of his ever-present glare, the ice of lingering disappointment and frustration. A rush of pheromones (and alcohol) burns through them, reminding them that they're not just brains, but bodies as well (and, somewhere deep down, perhaps hearts.)
They are suddenly more aware of the space between their bodies; they cling to this distance desperately, even as another shot makes it even harder, as if there were magnets sewn just under their skin.
Then another shot, and they're all crowding together for a picture, but they don't separate now. Her hipbone presses against his as the bare skin on their upper arms rubs together. His hand rests absently on her thigh, but before they have a change to process this, the team is on the move.
Everything is loud music, sweat, and laughter. There are beautiful (beautiful) women and sexual awakenings to deal with and enjoy, but they are silently nagging at each other's minds. For the first time he is noticing the way her hair curls around her face and the grace with which she moves (somehow still, even tonight) and she is getting caught up in the sharpness of his jaw and vulnerability of his throat. Then somebody nudges him towards her and finally they are all each other can see and they fall into dancing like it's as natural as—as whatever it was they did in the daylight.
After the hangovers wear off, this is all they can remember, other than the vague memories of his hands on her waist and the look on his face as he let go of his inhibitions—and all until the sunrise, as he realized the beauty the world could hold and she began to hope.
