Work Text:
It’s the alcohol, Lily tells herself, as the whisky burns her blood into liquor like some kind of alchemical solution. Her chest is warm, and her face, and her neck, and she’d blame it on the fire if it wasn’t on the opposite wall, lighting his silhouette. She lingers somewhere near intoxicated unconsciousness but is too shy to make the leap. Instead, she watches. He laughs, ruffling his hair, and pirouettes. Peter claps. There’s a joke in there she can’t make out. Maybe it’s on her. For sitting alone, bottle empty, and simply thinking: oh.
But that’s probably the alcohol.