Ten.
The echoes of a countdown started around her, drunkenly reverberating through the chilled London air in the estate courtyard. Clara searched through the rosy gaze of one glass of champagne too many, pretending that she wasn't looking for the gorgeous blonde, her gorgeous blonde, who would be furious if she missed this.
Nine.
Clara found her. Found her sitting next to one of their friends, some pink concoction in a bottle in hand, whiskey eyes sparkling, hazily shouting out numbers to the sky with the people around her.
Eight.
Rose. That was her name; dainty and floral and perfectly English. It was the hues of colours she wore, the tinged sound of her laughter that echoed down the concrete balcony, the way her skin was now flushing in the cold. Rose. Rose. Rose.
Seven.
Clara's footsteps were quick, and she was practically jogging across the courtyard, racing the gleeful shouts around her, dodging happy drunks, and young children, fuelled by the alcohol fizzing delightfully through her veins.
Six.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Rose had seen her, smile lighting up her face the way it always did. 'Features that were always a little too big.' Something her mum sometimes said, and Rose always bristled at and Clara always delighted at. It was that smile, wide and white and tongue touched, that she had fallen in love with first.
Two.
"Clara!"
"No, we've still got a second left!"
One.
And then it was lips, Rose's lips. Lips that were full and soft and tasting of vanilla chapstick. Lips that caressed when Clara was feeling down and lips that devoured when Clara was feeling lips of the woman she loved, who loved her back.
The deafening roar of fireworks and manic cheering managed to pull them apart, and their eyes were only for each other.