She keeps waiting for Wyatt to say something.
They've had what—two almost-kisses in the last week? Somewhere between the near-end of their world and the ugly weeks that followed—
Well, somewhere between all that, whatever is between them became more.
.
He doesn't say anything. Over a dinner of bland rations, his eyes are often on hers, but everyone is paying attention to Agent Christopher's clipped instructions. No time to talk.
She nudges the toe of her shoe against his. He quirks the corner of his lips in the beginning of a smile.
.
Her head fit so perfectly in the crook of his shoulder. She cannot forget this.
.
Jiya props herself up on one elbow at night. Jiya, who looks a little worn thin herself, these days. "So, you and Wyatt…acknowledge it yet?"
Lucy should be blushing. Instead she's smirking, like the answer is yes. Like they've made it past the question stage. "Acknowledge what?"
Like she doesn't already know.
.
They're suiting up for their next mission when Lucy decides that she's going to be the one.
The one to say it, that is.
"Are we going to talk about us?" she asks, twisting the curling iron through her hair. Hollywood glam doesn't make itself.
Wyatt's lips part as though he plans to answer before he's quite sure of the words. "Yeah," he says at last. "I guess we should."
He looks damn fine. What? World's always almost ending—a girl can't appreciate the simple things of life?
"What are you waiting for?" she asks—demands. She can feel the electricity of it all crackling along her skin, making a symphony of every nerve ending. "When are you going to just—go for it?"
It's bolder than she's ever been. Maybe every trip back to the past and on to their changing present changes her, too. Threads of grief and filaments of wonder; they all tie together these days.
Wyatt grins at her. Bright, sun-like, just for her to see. "The right moment," he says. "No interruptions, this time."
This mission, Lucy decides, time needs to be on their side.