"Well?" Soul turned from the mirror, arms spread skeptically.
Layla frowned.
"Wow"—Soul dropped his hands with a bitter laugh—"exactly what I was goin' for."
"You don't look like you, Papa." She waved him forward and Soul acquiesced. First, Layla tugged on his tie. "Don't wear this."
Soul shrugged. "It's supposed to be a nice restaurant."
She raised skeptical eyebrows. "Do you have to wear it?"
"Nah, just the jacket." He motioned towards the black blazer he'd tossed over the back of his desk chair.
"Then don't ," Layla replied as she wrinkled her nose. "I don't like the white shirt either."
"It's classic," Soul shot back as he plucked at the fabric on his chest. "Black and white always go together."
Layla firmly shook her head. "Not on you. Wear a color."
A color? He puffed his cheeks in defeat.
"Here!" The girl chimed before jumping off the bed and slipping into his closet. Soul waited with little patience, listening to Layla's gentle hum. She finally reemerged, victoriously holding up a Seattle piece–a blood red button down.
Soul took the hanger from her eager hands, staring at it for a moment. In the back of his mind, his own voice was starting strong and true like he'd just seen the on-air light spark to life: "I know you've been waitin' for me. Don't worry, up next is yours truly, Soul 'Eater' Evans."
Maka stood sideways, examining the view in the mirror. Or the lack of a view. With a huff, she tossed off the empire waist grey dress and flopped back on her bed. Childish frustration fluttered her legs for a moment. It's a nice restaurant. Just wear something classic, demure– like the schoolmarm you are. She rolled her eyes for only the ceiling to see.
Her mind slid back towards Blair– voluptuous, self-assured, sex-kitten Blair. That list was attempted with judgment but instead came laced with an odd mix of jealousy and disappointment. It wasn't as if Maka was planning on using Papa as a model for any relationship, but…
Soul– scarlet eyes burning as he leaned over her desk to ask her if she remembered all those out-of-character drunken admissions.
Soul– soft lips and tender fingers as he kissed her the first time.
Soul– letting her have another desperate brush that still left her voraciously hungry for more.
And more, and more, and more! Maka rolled onto her stomach, muting her helpless grumbles with her bedspread. Venting just enough frustration, she pushed to sit up, staring at the open door of her closet. That age-old chant of "slow" was trying to resound in the back of her head, but the languishing sigh she expelled was enough static to overthrow it. She stood, steady steps bringing her to the rows of clothing.
It was closer to the back, a relic from some peer-pressure-filled shopping trip with those friendly echoes of "That looks so good on you!" Her fingers hit the lace. Black, not dainty as a doily but suggestively hinting at skin underneath. It was made to accentuate every curve, every dip, and left more than enough room to show off the scandalously long legs she'd inherited from her mother. In short, it was made to impress, and maybe —just maybe— Maka could admit that was what she wanted.
Soul was able to have one adult thought before every last brain cell abandoned ship: She must be fucking freezing!
There was nothing after that.
Or, really, there was a cacophonous bit of everything.
Were her legs always that long?
Are– are collarbones supposed to be that hot?
I swear to fucking Death I can see at least an ab outline though that fucking dress.
He had to pinch the flesh of his thigh just to stop the runaway train of utterly puerile drivel that was threatening to overtake the cool he had amassed on the drive over. Soul attempted to stick with his first thought, quickly slipping out of his leather jacket and slinging it around her shoulders. He watched her face fall, her eyes skeptically hitting the extra fabric.
Oh, shit, shit, shit! How worrying about her health had backfired on him was still kind of lost in his already frazzled head so for a second he gave into that fucking idiot lizard-brain that existed solely for flight, fight, and fuck. All that slow elegance he'd managed on their first kiss was gone—destroyed—and instead of the tender brush he intended he snatched her lips up hungrily. He tried to temper it with a soft touch to her cheek, that gentle cupping of apology as he feared the pressure of his kiss would send her backwards.
Instead, her fervor met him easily, not in any way running scared but turning that peck into something that was maybe a little too much for the sidewalk. Their separation was audible, more so than the whisper he barely managed after: "I can't say I'm not gonna take another look at the restaurant but right now you gotta be cold."
"I'm definitely warm enough now," she murmured back.
What almost came from his mouth was a horrendous amalgamation of a moan, a sigh, and some kind of pleading whine. Oh for shit's sake! Get a grip and get her in the fucking car before your knees buckle! Thankfully he bit back whatever that terrifyingly whipped sound was and managed to pull away enough to see her smile. Not that that made matters any easier since it was glowing, ear-to-ear, and just screaming for him to crash into it again.
"Pinstripes?" Her fingers were lingering along his lapels, making his heart threaten to burst out right between them.
"Layla said black was boring," Soul replied with a roll of his eyes. "So now I gotta look like a Tim Burton character."
"A handsome Tim Burton character," she corrected joyfully as her right hand dared to dip fingers to the buttons of his shirt.
"And you look…" Ugh, fucking beautiful, but I used that, didn't I? How many times can I say that without soundin' lame?
Her eyebrows raised. "I look…?"
Good enough to fuckin' eat. That brought a healthy flush of pink to his cheeks, luckily looking just like shame for his stammering rather than that absurd voice in the back of his head plaguing him again. "Dunno the word for it. Would say 'angelic' but not sure that fits with the black." Okay, smooth, you got that one.
That brought dimples—dimples!—to her cheeks that he'd never noticed before as her grin threatened to explode. "Thank you."
He nodded with an unsteady breath. "Now let's get in the car before both of us freeze our asses off." That earned him a quick giggle and release from her grip. She was in the car before he could even try to do the gentlemanly door opening. Thankfully it gave him an extra moment to breathe in the cold air, to try to bring some kind of calm to a mind that was absolutely bucking against it.
Soul made it into the car just in time to hear an exasperated sigh break her lips. His seatbelt wasn't even clicked before she'd angled the screen of her cellphone at him:
[[Have a good time sweetheart]]
"I think we're lucky he wasn't banging on the window upstairs," Maka muttered.
He blew a bit of air between his lips as he steadied his hands against the wheel. "Guess you didn't have some revelation about boundaries over your family dinner."
"Nope," Maka replied with a huff before she haphazardly tossed her phone back into her bag. "Hey." She stole one of his hands, squeezing lightly as she smiled at him. "We didn't do anything wrong."
Hopefully did somethin' right, Soul wanted to answer with a sigh.
"Actually, that was…" She laughed softly. "A very nice hello."
He filled his lungs with the relief of that. "Let's keep it goin' then." Their fingers lingered together for another second before he brought them back to the wheel. Years of driving should have prepared him for the simple point-A to point-B trip, but suddenly her fingers were playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. Oh, I'm never gonna make it now. He risked a glance in her direction.
Jade eyes were intent on him.
Nope, never gonna make it.
One glass of wine had given her the courage to let their knees nudge under the table. Maka watched the surprise register on his face, the hesitant way he pulled just a centimeter back as if it had been a mistake. When she settled into the new gap he'd created, there was an adorable heavy heave to his breath before he allowed his leg to lean. "So, you think your stomach can handle a little movement?"
She blinked at him. "Where am I going?" It wasn't as if she'd been particularly hoping for dessert or anything, but the prospect of not being able to waste time at the table with him made her stomach lurch.
Soul cleared his throat. "There's a dancefloor off the dining room"—his chin flicked towards the right where a curtained doorway stood—"if you're interested."
She had expected heart palpitations when he picked her up, when he kissed her so perfectly and deeply on the sidewalk, and maybe when they continued to steal touches throughout the night, but this–!
"Unless you don't know how," he teased.
Technically… But Maka faked the furrow in her brow. "I can dance just fine, thank you very much."
"Prove it," he challenged as he offered a hand to her.
The temptation and the threat was just enough to get her to accept and let Soul bring her to her feet. This was nothing more than a romance novel– a well-dressed man leading her behind a mystical curtain that unveiled a dramatic dance floor. On the stage was a live band, strumming away some lively tune that had already entranced a few couples as they spun across lengths of patterned wood. He urged her forward, getting her to the floor just before he made it himself.
For all the stuttering missteps, Soul suddenly seemed entirely in his element as he gently brought her back, one hand safely anchored at her hip to bring her just a breath away from him. "Think you can let me lead?"
Any attempted bravado faltered as his warmth radiated straight through her. "I don't see how I have a choice." He chuckled softly, pressing her into a turn that was almost as dizzying as the look in his eyes. Confidence. An unexpected bit of her swooned at the permanency of his smirk, the willful guidance of his hands, and the smooth float of their bodies.
"Feels like I'm cheatin'," he murmured, suddenly hiding that grin as he dipped his lips close to her ear. "Sorta one of those rich-boy things that I usually like to hide."
"You had lessons?" Keeping up with the conversation took just as much stamina as moving her feet, most of her attention begging to be on the way his whisper heated her earlobe or the intensity of those long, elegant fingers on her hip.
"Mom's orders," he grunted. "Her thinkin' was no woman wants to be with a man who can't dance."
As they spun again, Maka's heart lost tempo. I almost want to say she's right! "Then your dad…?"
He started to snicker. "Is a terrible dancer. Well, I should say in the conventional sense. Turn on anything Arabic or Persian and he'll go wild, but a waltz is beyond him."
Other than those quiet, painful whispers, that was the most she'd heard him speak of his family. It shot a bit of clarity into her veins, making her tilt her head and prompt: "Oh?"
The fluid motion they'd been sharing faltered, and she watched his grin momentarily dim. "Hearin' about family stuff… must be borin'."
"No," she corrected quickly, pulling back even more to give him the full view of her eyes that shone with anything but ennui.
"Dad grew up in Iran," Soul offered quietly, "but went whole-hog on Americanizing when he came over here. Even took Mom's last name when they got married." He nudged his chin forward slightly. "What about you?"
Maka shrugged as much as the dance would allow. "Papa's your generic European mutt. My mama was half-Japanese though."
"Huh"—his eyes danced over her face—"makes for a good mix."
The banter had momentarily allowed her to forget the closeness, but that even stare of his was studying her bit by bit. "What about your mom?"
"Ah– Traditional WASP." He rolled his eyes to give those words the exasperation they deserved. "I guess not-so-traditional if you count marryin' my dad. Only custom she kept was the cash."
She caught the sourness starting at the corner of his smile. "So you meant it when you said 'rich-boy?'"
"Growin' up, yeah." He paused for a sigh. "Seattle I was dirt-fuckin'-poor but comin' back… well, I try to keep Layla as grounded as I can. Try to get our lifestyle closer to everyone else rather than keepin' up with the Evanses."
Maka nodded, gently playing with his lapel. "She doesn't seem spoiled."
A bout of laughter burst from his lips. "Not in the money sense, but… I dunno."
"But with your affection," Maka teased, watching as it did its job and brought a gentle blush to his cheeks. "You're a big softie."
"Hey," he griped. "Be careful."
Her eyebrows raised. "Or what?"
He grimaced, his bluff drifting off with the sigh from his mouth.
"It's not a bad thing to love your little girl," she murmured. That proper hand that was supposed to sit at his shoulder moved from his lapel to just under his chin, tilting him closer to her. "To have a heart."
The smooth step that he had started slowed from the steady pattern into just a shallow movement that enabled him to lean in. His kiss was still a lightning strike to her, but this one came with the added sizzle of the leftover drama of the dance. Nerves were alight as her hand fell back to his jacket to cling for dear life. There was now no movement at all, stationary as he released her.
"Definitely know I got one of those." He released her hip just to station her hand over the beating of his heart through his shirt. It was desperate– a solid call making itself known through the fabric. Soul cleared his throat. "Ready for dessert?"
It was a little too coy to leave the safety of her mind, but Maka relished the thought anyway: Nothing could be as sweet as this.
Maka's face from the passenger seat spoke only of serene contentment.
Meanwhile, Soul couldn't stop the anxious scream that was taking over the entirety of his consciousness as he drove her home.
I wanna kiss her again.
But outside her house?
With her dad watchin'?
And it's not like she'll invite me up–
She can't.
He risked a glance over at her, still finding that tranquility. She'd adopted this smile, too–one he'd never seen before. He couldn't tell if it was more of the cat that caught the canary or just basic pleasure.
Should I have invited her over?
That brought the boil of his blood to a fever pitch.
So we could be alone. Completely alone. Alone and able to kiss and–
A breath blustered over his lips involuntarily.
"Eat too much?" she chimed.
Death, I wish that was the problem! He grunted a reply in hopes of avoiding an outright lie.
Maka's hand was suddenly motioning in front of him. "Why don't you pull over here?"
Soul instantly followed the order, but his mind continued to race. We're still a block from her place. I mean, she can walk, but–
Nevermind the thought, since as soon as he placed the car in park the hand that had originally guided him was under his chin, turning him towards her just in time to fall into her kiss. Soul was entirely a goner, fingers with a will of their own as they quickly cupped her face. Her own willful grip hit his shirt, abusing the fabric over a heart that was instantly kicked into overdrive.
There was nowhere for him to go—as if he wanted to—but further into her space as she tugged him forward. With all her firmness, her mouth still welcomed him, letting Soul explore with a tongue that was dying to taste her. He could almost regret the adolescence of it, but there wasn't a brain cell left in his entire mind to fire anything other than want.
Cherries.
His delirious mind couldn't process that dessert had been cherry cheesecake, instead sure that she naturally existed with the intoxicating undertones of the sweet fruit. She let him take more and more until he was straining against the center console and his seatbelt. I don't know what slow is. I don't know what quick is. I just know– oh, Death, I just want to do this forever. He brushed his hands back into her hair, silky and loose over her shoulders, to keep her from taking away his prize.
Maka's palms smoothed down his chest, lighting a scorching trail as they slid under his blazer to search along his hips. So many muscles, too many hidden patches of skin that no one had searched for in years screamed under her touch. Even with his attentiveness to the kiss, a low, heady moan bubbled up his throat, breaking their connection enough that both wavered.
Her breathless laugh tumbled over his lips, the heat still so close. "I, um, I hope this is alright."
Alright? He wanted to shriek. "S'fine," he murmured through what felt like drunken lips even without a drop of alcohol in his blood. "Just…" How long do I get to do this? What's the next hour of your night lookin' like because I can't imagine lettin' you go.
"Just a little longer?" Maka offered in the dizzying space he'd left behind. "I-I can't invite you in or anything, but…"
"A little longer." Death, had his voice ever been this deep before? This pleading? He could even feel it in his fingers, a gentle entreaty as he tenderly touched through her tresses. "As much of a little longer as you'll give me."
