He's seen her before and not like this: one manicured hand gripping the stem of a wine glass and the other supporting the weight of a pan as she slides it from the oven. No, he's sure he's seen her in some dream, some other lifetime, and it instantly draws him to her.
She smiles when she looks up, brilliant white against deep red, and greets him. There's no recognition in her eyes like she knows him too. He must be crazy.
"Nate's out back," she juts her head toward the patio and reminds him why he's here.
"You must be Nora."
She smiles wider and there's dimples now. "Usually, yes. And you are?"
He reaches a hand out, only polite but he wants to feel her skin and he will berate himself later for it. "Danse."
She clasps his hand and thankfully there's no electricity. Something to convince him to leave well enough alone.
"Not on a first name basis yet, I see."
"That's how people typically refer to me."
She nods and trades his hand for a cigarette. "Do you drink, Danse? Nate and the rest of them damn near bought out every store in town."
He does drink and he needs to now but he also needs to stay away from the kitchen.
"Help yourself to what's in the fridge."
He doesn't speak, just allows himself one more glance at her, back to him as she slices into a pie and puffs mindlessly from her cigarette, before he grabs a beer and steps through the back door to the sound of laughter.
It's a mercy that she never steps outside though he meticulously keeps track of everyone who walks through the door. An hour ticks by and he relaxes finally. She likely won't join them at all. He finds he can meet Nate's eyes without feeling guilty-and he shouldn't, after all. He'd done nothing improper, hadn't even let his eyes wander like he'd seen some of the other soldiers do. It was only the pulse of attraction that condemned him but he could fight it.
Nate clasps a hand on his shoulder drunkenly as he tells a story and Danse supports his weight. Every man has gone through twice as many beers as he has. He wouldn't usually restrain himself as much but she's still inside somewhere and he doesn't want to say anything he'll regret.
The night winds down with a toast to Nate and his wife and their new home, freshly built and already stylistically coordinated. He leans against Danse, his closest friend of the lot in attendance, and splutters his adoration for Nora: her intelligence, her wit, her kindness, her hips. It's all things Danse has heard before but now he has a face to the name and it feels as if he's trespassing.
He bids goodnight to Nate and the others and takes the long way to his car through the gate and around the house.
It's been weeks since Danse first stepped foot near their residence. It would be longer still if Nate hadn't relentlessly insisted he come for dinner. He's had the debate a million times in his head: if he's a good friend for staying away as long as he did or a bad friend for not staying away longer. Nate seems to be offended when he declines his generosity. Hospitality is big where Nate was raised and it's an affront to avoid it for long.
He rings the bell and Nate answers the door. The Cabernet Sauvignon is heavy in his hands, intended as a gift but it feels too intimate because it's what she was drinking the last time he was here and he shouldn't have remembered that.
On cue, Nora is suddenly there and not a bit less bewitching than she had been the last time. "Welcome back."
He makes eye contact but only for as long as it takes to acknowledge her with a greeting and then he's looking past her, into the house and examining the walls.
"New paint," Nate proudly holds up his hands, swaths of yellow staining patches of his skin.
"I picked out the color and Nate did all the hard work," Nora winks.
She turns away and heads toward the stove while Nate takes Danse down the hallway and shows him the rest of the home, brimming with pride in his investment. Similar shades of yellow coat the walls of the spare bedroom but it's otherwise bare. In contrast, their room is full: a queen size bed dominates the space near the window and a dresser in the corner is littered with pictures and mementos. He steps closer to examine the photos and finds candids of the couple along with holiday pictures where they squeeze alongside family and adopt fake grins. He frowns in distaste. He might be biased because it's nothing compared to the way she smiled at the housewarming party.
When they return to the kitchen, Nora's fixing their plates. Her face is concentrated. She pulls half of her bottom lip up between her teeth and her forehead creases slightly. It's only when her expression suddenly morphs into one of pain, his arm reaching out to her reflexively, that he catches himself and shifts away. She inhales sharply and shakes her hand to soothe the burn she suffered but otherwise continues her tasks.
The dining room table is small and Nate sits at one edge, Nora to his left and Danse to his right.
"Nora's a good cook. She's got all these recipes I've never heard of," Nate comments around his first bite.
She swirls the wine in her glass and half-smiles at him. "You're easy to impress. You eat so much, I'm not sure how you can tell what you even put into your mouth."
He laughs at that and Danse even chuckles, just a fraction more at ease. He's the only one responsible to the tension, of course. She's blissfully unaware of how she affects him and isn't nearly as reluctant in his presence as he is in hers. It makes it easier for him to eat and eventually, he even manages to finish his own glass of wine and pours another. It makes him feel light, normal, and he slouches a little in his chair.
His inhibition falls away and he and Nate spiritedly discuss work and politics, often one and the same. There's rumors of impending war and everyone is awaiting a bomb. It makes the civilians anxious but the soldiers he knows are arrogant and Nate is no exception.
"Chinese'll regret it if they ever even think about nuclear war."
"They won't," Danse insists. He's sure of it.
"If they do, at least we have the vault, huh, Nor?"
The dark haired woman has been watching them, laughing with them, but rarely speaking. She remains quiet but he demeanor shifts just slightly into a heavy stillness.
"Ah. That's what you're doing."
"I'm afraid I don't understand." Danse studies her, watches her take another drink and then quirk a knowing brow up while she stares at him from over her glass.
It's a mistake, how much he's had to drink, because now he's staring at the marks her lipstick leaves along the rim. It turns his face the same shade of red.
"I'm a lawyer. So just... get all of your jokes out of your system."
"If she can't talk about the vault, she's probably working a Vault-Tec case. Frustrating sometimes, isn't it?"
Nora playfully punches his arm and rolls her eyes.
"What's your specialty?" Danse asks, curious about her and now it's appropriate, polite even, to ask.
"Human rights, actually."
"Best damn lawyer in the whole neighborhood," Nate quips.
She lights a cigarette with a tremor in her fingers. "How sweet. I'm blushing."
Danse feels his own craving flare up and he pats at the pack in his pocket, pulling a cigarette free. He's about to ask for the lighter when her thumb slides against the sparkwheel and the flame reignites. She reaches over the table to the cigarette in his mouth and her hand is inches from his jaw. He recoils as soon as the end glows orange and her hand lingers in the air for a moment, surprised at his sudden withdrawal.
Nate starts to clear dishes and when Danse rises to assist him, he realizes she's staring. Her eyebrows are drawn and her lips are pushed together into a taut line. Guilt knots his stomach up while he brings their glasses to the sink and starts washing. Nate excuses himself to use the restroom and Danse remains in the kitchen, acutely aware that he's alone with her. It turns his stomach. She doesn't immediately come up to him. She makes him wait, hurt or confused or both at once, but finally she walks back to the sink and gently ushers him aside to take over washing the dishes. It's only her fingertips that make contact with his bicep but he flinches back all the same.
"I can do this. You're a guest."
"I don't mind helping."
The water is running but her hands aren't working. They're limp under its steady stream and she glowers at them. "Do you not like me?"
It takes him a moment to comprehend what she's asking and then another to decide what to say. It comes out wrong anyway. "I... I like you."
"I mean... did I do something? You're always avoiding my eyes and shrinking away from me and you're not like that around other people at all."
He shakes his head. It's all he can do. He can't explain, not really, but it gives him some small satisfaction to know she's been observing him, too.
"I guess it doesn't matter," she sighs, scrubbing at a plate. "It's just that all of Nate's other friends like me. I hate thinking there's someone who doesn't, especially when I can't figure out why."
There's very little distance between them and every scrub brings her elbow dangerously close to his stomach. Regardless, he stays rooted in place, the only sign of affection he has allowed her so far, because he doesn't want to pursue this but he can't stand for her to believe it's her fault.
In the dim kitchen lighting, she's captivatingly beautiful and he feels a jealous twinge in his chest. It's probably the wine, the reason he's taking too much liberty, examining her high cheekbones and the flush of her bronzed skin, devastated at his rejection. He'd seen her eyes radiant and good-humored but now they're troubled and it wounds him. He's torn between his respect for Nate and whatever it is she's cultivating in him.
"I don't know you well." A lie. Respectable, maybe, for a good reason, but he hates hearing it from his own mouth.
She looks up at him through dark lashes, judging his answer, and then returns to her chore without a hint of the verdict. Nate returns and offers another drink but alcohol has already done its damage for the night and Danse announces his departure instead. She says goodbye and by then her frustration has dissipated and something else indistinguishable has replaced it. It bothers him and as if she can sense his inquiry, she's quick to turn away.
He drives home unnerved and spends the night alone in quiet speculation.