He's dressed to the nines in his navy suit and tie. With all of the bodies around him, he forgets for a moment that he's an orphan. He's got family of the unconventional sort, friends that have become brothers and shared their lives and their holidays with him. It's why he sits in the Abram's dining room that Thursday surrounded by food and laughter and music that shrinks and grows as the children tinker with the volume dials.

She's there, as she always is. She has as much a right to that space as Nate's wife as he does. Deep in conversation with the other wives, she doesn't so much as glance at him when he enters. But that, he knows, is not for lack of noticing. He's used to bright smiles and coral cheeks but what he finds-what he's earned-is a cold shoulder. The only hint that she knows he's there, that reassures him he is in fact visible, is the arch of her back away from him when he steps behind her to grab a beer. It's penance. He's rejected her offer, platonic as it was, and she's giving him exactly what he'd asked for. It's bitter on his tongue; he'd chosen wrong.

He can't afford to do a thing about it.

Neal's wife, Gracie, ushers everyone to a table set with decorative plates and glistening silver cutlery before Nora breaks away from her conversation with Alice and Marjorie and he feels the sting of missed opportunity. He means to apologize. He's not prone to the dramatic but in a room with less people, he would all but beg for the misery he'd grown used to, tell her he was selfish and sorry.

But she sits by Nate and Danse can say none of that over his friend. Over her husband.

Nate, who nudges him with an elbow and winks, because he's not the only one to have come alone and he's sure it's deliberate.

The woman is the furthest thing from his mind until she chooses a seat. Neal directs her next to Danse and she sits close enough that her skirt brushes against him, close enough that he knows that she's the source of the scent of vanilla in the room.

It's been planned, by one or all of his friends, and he holds back the groan of exasperation.

She's pretty in a severe way. Sharp cheekbones and angular features that are intimidating, almost off-putting. A woman that, in any other situation, he would write off completely but she's come here a participant in the game of matchmaking his friends play and he's too polite to ignore her now. Her makeup is soft except around the eyes, where a deep purple pulls the green from her irises. It's the first thing he notices when he looks at her straight on and it's not unappealing. The brief moment that their eyes meet flusters him and Danse is quick to avert his embarrassed gaze only to land on Nora, perhaps out the habit he's developed of keeping tabs on her.

She's shifty, uncomfortable. Between the subtle tightening of her mouth and the restless way her fingers twitch, he's suddenly interested in her reactions to this situation. Some part of him wonders if she knows that the pit in her stomach is one he endures daily, that flares up when he watches Nate's hands trace skin that he knows and Danse does not.

Gracie nudges Neal and he calls the kids into the room for prayer. Every hand reaches for the one next to it and the stranger's hand is soft in his. Small and feminine. Like Nora's but the color is off. He shouldn't be imagining that it's her beside him but thoughts are all he has now that she's exiled him.

Eyes close and heads bow but not his. He watches Nora, the way her face wrinkles in concentration and then the way the lines smooth out because her eyes open and she looks back at him, frowning and confused.

"Amen."

A muffled chorus of amenand then there are bowls being passed and food being shoveled onto plates and the sound of metal scraping against ceramic breaks them away.

"So, Mrs. Vault-Tec," Warren prods.

Nora smiles apologetically, mimes locking her lips and tossing the imaginary key behind her.

"Aw, come on. It's all over the news," Marc pleads. "New arrests every day and barely any details. Something's up."

"Sorry, boys. You'll find out like everyone else."

They groan but she slides ham onto her plate and keeps her secrets, not tempted in the slightest to indulge them. Her work is important to her. He knows little but he knows this.

"Camila, what do you do?" Marjorie asks and he realizes she's talking to the woman beside him.

She ducks her head and pokes at the beans on her plate. "I'm a receptionist."

The current of embarrassment is one he detects even if the others don't. She's not proud to say it now, whether or not she would be otherwise, because she's no lawyer.

"For whom?"

"A little dentistry in Cambridge."

"How nice," Alice affirms. "I bet you get the cutest children in there."

Camila smiles. "We do. Oh goodness, they're adorable."

Danse looks to Nora, vigilant now that he knows. Sure enough, she studies her lap. He feels the pricking of his own heart at the sight, feels it swell when Nate squeezes her hand.

He clears his throat and changes the subject. "Where is it you went to school, Camila?"

She beams and gushes about her alma mater and Danse nods like he's listening but he's straining to gauge Nora's reaction in his peripheral. She raises her head but her expression is blurry from this angle. Too blurry to tell if the gesture has done anything to win her over or if she sees the repentance in his face.

He talks to Camila-Mila, she says, call her Mila-because he's inadvertently started a conversation but he knows it's what everyone wants from him. Their voices are lost in the cacophony of others and she leans in, asks him about favorite books and what he does and it isn't terrible the way he'd thought it might be. Not half as much, because Nora, he notices with morbid enjoyment, casts regular glances in their direction. The normal roles are reversed and for once, he's not the one scrambling.

Mila is the first to leave, cites the family she still needs to see, and when she's gone, it's only he and Nora left seated at the end of the table. The others busy themselves with dessert and bottles of wine and cigarettes that Gracie insists not be smoked near her good tablecloth or else.

Her hands fiddle with a decorative napkin and she's determined to keep her eyes there and nowhere else. She may not want to speak to him but if she truly doesn't want his company, there are a million excuses for her to leave the table.

"She's cute," Nora mumbles. "Camila."

There's a sharpness in her tone and Camila's name breaks off in her mouth like she almost didn't say it all, like it's taboo and speaking it is more acknowledgement than she cares for.

"Yes," he agrees and leaves it there. But cute. Cute isn't satisfying. What he wants, what his chest aches for, is beauty and even when it sits just in front of him, it's unattainable. Nora is red lips and long legs and kindness and hard work and cute simply cannot compare. But Mila, he supposes, is cute and that's not nothing.

"She could take care of you..."

She trails off like there's more she wants to say but she abandons the words for wine and smiles uneasily at him. It's the right thing, to wish each other well in their own pursuits, and he wonders if he looks the same when she hopes for pregnancy.

"I'd be a fool to turn away free dental care."

She nearly spits out her wine, covers her mouth and swallows before she laughs and the sound turns him to putty in her hands. Gracie shoots Nora a warning look and she gestures to the spotless area in front of her to prove her innocence.

"Well," she tilts her head, amused. "Perfect match."

They say nothing of their last interaction. He knows better than to think it's because she finds it inconsequential but maybe she's forgiven him. Maybe jealousy is enough to remind her that it's too hard to fully release him the way she should, the way he doesn't want her to. She asks him to light her and he nods and follows her to the back porch. This arrangement isn't impossible so long as he keeps himself in check.

But it's hard to extinguish the what ifs. He allows himself to stand closer than strictly necessary when he touches the flame to her cigarette and he wonders what it would've been like to have met her first. Before Nate, before vows and houses. The almosts are vivid: sweet nothings and picture frames, bodies curled together in a shared bed, lipstick smears across his jaw. He needs his own cigarette to curb the desire in his gut but when he pats down his pockets, he realizes he left his pack in his car. He turns to retrieve it but she grabs his hand and pulls him back and they're damn lucky no one is around to notice. Her palm is warm against his and she rubs her thumb across his knuckles before she pulls away. Her mouth hangs open like she's as surprised as he is and then she passes him her own half-smoked cigarette, tinged red where her lips had been.

No, he thinks. He's gone back and forth enough times to make himself dizzy but he cannot be friends with this woman and his conscience nags him that it's too dangerous to try. But he accepts her offer reluctantly because he's burning to know what she tastes like. The spasms of his hands don't fade even when his addiction is sated, quavering twice as hard as he disposes of the filter.

He has unintentionally pushed the boundary line a little closer to catastrophe but that thought is overshadowed by vibrant scarlet.

Red is all that matters. Red like lips and passion and blood.