The first time it happened was after a party at the bar at the Musain. Maybe it was somebody's birthday or maybe it was an after-finals celebration, she can't remember.

What she does remember is sometime after a round of drinks (or maybe two. Or three) she sidled up to Enjolras and kissed him. She doesn't know why exactly she did – why are moths always drawn inexorably towards flame?

And she definitely, definitely remembers pulling him out of the bar and being led up the stairs of his apartment building, his kisses rough and fierce and somehow distinctively Enjolras as he presses her up against the walls of the darkened hallway, his fingers sinking into her hips even as she tugs none-too-gently at his hair.

When they finally make it to his apartment, she is sure to tell him, "This means nothing, okay?"

"Just once," he agrees, before he bends to nip at her collarbone.

Famous last words.

So what if it happens more than once? "We're just two friends having sex, it doesn't mean anything," they assure each other as they shed clothing like feathers and lips blaze new trails eagerly across smooth skin and old scars.

Afterwards, she rolls over and out of his arms' reach, curled safely on the opposite side of the bed. The morning after, she always wakes up early and leaves, never looking back at the slumbering figure next to her (like Lot's wife, she thinks amusedly as she runs as silently as she can through white-washed halls).

They reach out to each other whenever the mood strikes, slipping around their friends and acquaintances, and each time, she tells herself, "It means nothing".

It means nothing when they find themselves spending most of their time together, and it means nothing that whenever they go to the Musain they know exactly how the other likes their respective coffee. It means nothing when she comes over once and they don't even fuck, instead talking long into the early hours of the morning about – about nothing in particular, about the history of France, about the history of themselves. She hadn't known he could joke until her sides were aching with restrained giggles at one in the morning. But that's just a natural consequence of their friendship.

And it definitely does not mean anything when they're studying in the Musain like she totally does not have a huge lovebite on her collarbone from last night hidden under her shirt, and she looks up to find him staring at her warmly, indulgently affectionate until his eyes meet hers and they both look away. It means nothing at all.

Except one day she wakes up, and for some reason her escape alarm has become defective, because that is sunlight streaming through the blinds. That is his breathing that she was listening to, steady as the rise and fall of waves lapping on the shore. She panics, rolling out of the sheets.

She's whirling through the living room before she notices.

Her chemistry textbook is on the coffee table, her favorite blue cardigan is slung over the armchair in the corner, and the mug in the sink bears lingering traces of lip prints in her personal shade of wine-red.

It's always meant something, she realizes. What it means is, for the first time in her life Eponine has let someone get close to her, and, for the first time, she doesn't mind.

When Enjolras wakes up he stumbles into the kitchen, bleary-eyed, to find her scrambling eggs while clad in one of his t-shirts.

"Good morning, gorgeous," he says groggily. His stubble tickles a little as he kisses her cheek, and she giggles as warm arms wrap around her waist from behind.

I could definitely get used to this, she thinks.