He's fidgeting. He turns off the car rather abruptly, disengages his safety belt and then rests his hand on the door handle before opening it, a pause in his usual economy of movement, one which makes her watch him as he rises.
She's had ample opportunity to observe him lately, each occasion as treasured as the next. They have been to dinner twice, to the beach to watch the fog roll in, to museums and concerts and even to a movie, prompting a discussion on the prevalence of Terran cinema and the lack thereof on Vulcan. They've covered topics from the intricacies of Andorian history to the latest parrises squares match and once, over a discussion of the new dilithium mining operation on Rigel V, he touched her wrist, laid his fingers over the fabric covering her skin. It felt like a confirmation of what they were doing with this time spent together, the warmth seeping into her so as she had walked home that night, her own hand had covered that spot on her sleeve. In turn, she has touched his shoulder, and twice taken his arm to point something out to him, something she could have used her words to draw his attention to but instead rested her hand on him so that she could feel how he turned towards her. There's something delicious about the pace they have together cultivated, something frustrating and nearly painful in how it's drawn out, makes her thoughts catch on the idea of him when they're not together and ache for when they are, each word and action between them laced and layered with meaning in a way that it's never been with anyone else.
He makes time feel elastic, minutes stretched and strung out in their long, winding conversations and hours that rush by so that they're here again, outside of her dorm when she swore they just left, no matter that the sun that was hanging high in the sky has set and darkness has blanketed campus, leaving her feeling very much alone with him.
"Thank you," she says as he crosses to her door, opens it, makes her think not for the first time that he researched Terran customs and manners and has been making judicious use of them.
He doesn't respond but he often doesn't, speaking no more often now than he ever did, back when she would find reasons to spend afternoons at his office hours and then later, prolonged evenings at her desk and he at his after they had finished their work. It's always been more important to take note of what he doesn't say and she appreciates the rest it gives her from the constant chatter of her profession.
It is not the first time they have stood so close together, so that it's not the first time she feels the patter of her heart pick up in response to his eyes on her, the suspension of time and the world around them so that when he finally steps back it leaves her half surprised that anything else still exists, that campus remains the setting in which they are standing, with how thoroughly the whole of it is pushed out of her mind when he looks at her like that.
This time, he doesn't step back very far and this time, his hands rise to close over her elbows. His hands aren't shaking but she doesn't think she would be surprised if they were, not with the watery tremble that his touch has started in her.
His kiss doesn't come as a surprise but that doesn't mean that there isn't some uncertainty to it, a hesitation and delay in how their mouths touch for that first time. He hasn't done this before. She knows that - knew that - an unspoken and tacit understanding hanging in the air between them for some time now, one which is confirmed in how his nose bumps against her cheek, the too light and slightly misaligned brush of his lips on hers.
She wants to remember it forever. She wants his soft inhale to be seared into her memory, wants to carry with her that first impression of the sweep of warmth from his face so close to hers, wants to hold close how his thumbs press into the inside of her forearms, wants to tuck that somewhere deep down in her so that it's with her always.
The desire to see what he'll do next nearly keeps her still and unmoving, but she's always met him halfway. His cheek is smooth and soft and two fingers pressed there is enough to hold him in place as she kisses him once and then twice and then until he responds to her, his fingers tightening and his head tilting into her touch.
"Goodnight," she whispers to him when they part, keeping the words soft enough that she's able to catch the shiver in his exhale, the sound this throat makes as he swallows. The slight distance between them does nothing to diminish how soft and gentle his eyes are, how his hands haven't left her and how he hasn't done anything to move away from her fingers, pressed now to his jaw.
She touches her thumb to his lips, thinks about at the time that will pass until she's with him again, tries to hold that in the moment of being here with him now.
The crunch of the pavement under her boots is too loud as she walks away from him. She knows without looking, though she does, turning back at the door, that he waits until she's inside before he leaves.