A/N: For the Last Ship Sailing Competition. Prompts: storm, chess piece, "I swear that when our lips touch, I can taste the next sixty years of my life." - Rudy Francisco, quilt, glorious, "You don't have to leave."

Admit it, Teddy. You never had a chance.

She sways to the music coming from the Muggle radio she picked up in Wales last summer holiday. Her long silken hair is tied up on top of her head and she's wearing one of your tee shirts and her new flat is a complete and utterly glorious disaster. Books and clothes and stray chess pieces litter the living room as though a hurricane swept through before she even properly moved in.

Because that's what she is, you know. A hurricane spinning you round in circles, blowing away the inessential, inching up your coast until you've lost yourself, when you're supposed to be helping her unpack- unpack her new life in her new place on a new street far away from all things familiar. But all you can do is stand there and watch her dance around in the eye of the storm she's made without even realizing it.

And somehow, even though everything has changed, you will never tire of watching her and you will never question if you fit into whatever life she makes for herself in whatever city she's fallen in love with next. She looks too damn good in your shirt, for starters.

She pops open a bottle of wine and pours it into two coffee mugs since neither of you have found the wine glasses yet.

"Let's just celebrate right now," she says. "We can unpack later."

You set aside the quilt Aunt Gabby had made for her and shift the many boxes over to make room on the little couch for the two of you to sit. She lounges back, throwing her long legs across your lap and grins as you change your hair from turquoise to cerulean, to indigo and back. Occasionally she'll ask for more interesting colors like Weasley red or Hufflepuff yellow but eventually she always comes back to blue.

And then it's one glass, two glasses, a second bottle later. She's gripping your collar and kissing your neck, soft and insistent, making the usual requests.

"Please make your hair that blue I like, love," she says. "Yes, that one."

It's becoming too hard to concentrate. Maybe it's the wine. Or maybe it's the closeness of her and the smell of her shampoo. Or maybe it's the fact that there's a ring burning a hole in your pocket that you've been carrying around for weeks but it's never the right time. She's always too tired, or it's so loud she might not hear you, or there's too many strangers, or you're too drunk because you thought a drink or two would take the edge off your nervousness but you always overdo it.

"Victoire," you mumble. "Late. Ought to go."

"You're too drunk."

"Your fault."

"You said to open the second bottle."

You open your mouth to protest but she's right. You'd gotten lost in the moment and you didn't want it to end. Didn't want to leave just yet. Didn't want to lose your nerve, but once again the moment's passed. Maybe you'll ask her tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow you'll get it right.

She climbs onto your lap and takes your face in her hands and it's too late to leave at all now. She has you wrapped around her finger. Hell, she's had you wrapped around her finger since you were children and she was still just a spitfire little girl and you were a hopeless little boy who let her boss you around. That was so many years ago when she didn't know what color blue she liked best on you yet, and you didn't know the taste of red wine on her lips yet, and even now, there are still so many things you haven't discovered about her.

Yet.

But you want to.

Admit it, Teddy. You never had a chance.

"You don't have to leave," Victoire says.

"I don't want to leave," you respond.

"Then don't."

You sigh and brush a few stray strands of silvery hair away from her face.

"Please, Teddy," she whispers. She presses her lips to yours and you hold her closer, the hurricane sweeping both of you up in a whirlwind of wine and whispers and new beginnings. A perfect opportunity. "I want my first night here to be with you," she continues. "Please stay."

You swallow hard and nod your head. "Okay."

And then you kiss her hard before you say anything stupid, tangling your hands in the hem of the shirt she stole so you don't impulsively go reaching for the ring and proposing to her like a drunken fool.

Maybe you'll ask her tomorrow, you think, as you both stumble toward her room, tripping over boxes and giggling into each other's mouths. You'll have the rest of your lives to get this right. At the very least, it can wait until tomorrow.

"Victoire," you say as she curls up into the crook of your arm.

She tangles her fingers with your own, and you sense that she's already half asleep.

"I love you," you say, reveling in the warmth of her breath against your chest.

"I love you too, Teddy, dear," she says. "Don't leave, okay?"

You smile and kiss her forehead. "I'm not going anywhere."

And you fall asleep with the rest of your life between your fingers and she doesn't even know it.

Yet.