Mirrorball (Jamie Tartt)

romance is not dead, if you keep it just yours

He takes her to his apartment and Thea knows that this is the final line in the sand.

Kissing Jamie Tartt is one thing, but this is something else entirely. It's purposeful. A thousand tiny choices that follow them both through the lobby and up the winding stairs to his front door. She could have stopped this the moment that they'd left the Gala. But she hadn't. Not when he'd called a taxi or when he'd noticed her shivering and draped his jacket over her shoulders or when he'd slipped his hand into her own and carried it like something worth having. He's still holding her hand now. His grasp warm and gentle. Like she might break apart if he presses any harder.

Jamie's apartment is exactly how she'd expected it to be. It's all marble floors and white walls and sleek, minimalist decor that probably cost more than everything she owns combined. It looks more like a showroom than a home. The only evidence of the Jamie that she knows is a trophy cabinet at the far corner of the living room. It's old, probably an antique, and it's filled to the brim with evidence of his excellence.

"I'll get us a drink," he says, finally letting go of her hand.

It's silly, really, that she doesn't follow him. She should. There is so much new information here and she wants to see all of it. To imagine his every day and pretend that she's not thinking about fitting herself into it. But, instead, she walks across the living room and pulls at the edge of the curtain. They're not very high up, but she's always enjoyed seeing the world from up above the ground.

Not that she can.

It's hard to see anything around the spider web of cracked and splintering glass that covers the dimensions of the window. Jamie's apartment might not be a penthouse, but they're still three stories up. Either something must have been really unfortunate as it fell from the sky or someone had been really determined to leave a mark.

"Oh, yeah." Jamie clears his throat behind her. "I'm getting someone in to sort that." He's carrying two glasses and a bottle of wine. The label is a little blurry from the other side of the room, but she recognises two words. Alcohol-free. "Just been leaving the curtain closed."

Thea nods and pulls the fabric back into place, "did I make it worse?"

"Not really," he says, putting everything down on the coffee table so that he can pull her close to him. "He's just been practising his aim."

"Still," she says, melting into the touch. "I'm sorry."

Jamie shakes his head, pressing a kiss to the side of her neck. "Don't be." A breath catches in her throat as he moves down her skin. "How about..." he kisses her again, a little harder this time. "We just focus..." Another kiss at the crook of her neck, just above her collarbone. "On right now."

Thea turns so that they're facing each other and is greeted with something that wouldn't be out of place in the MET. A portrait of want so detailed that it sends a shiver down her. Every ounce of it is for her. As if she is something that deserves it. And, shit, maybe he thinks that she is. What an idea that would be.

"Right now sounds pretty nice," she says softly.

It's a night of selfish acts, after all.

Thea doesn't expect the flat to be empty when she gets home the next morning, but she never could have guessed who would be there to greet her.

"There she is," Aria says, leaning against the island counter in the kitchen. Her short hair is tussled and the outfit she'd worn the night before is thrown on so haphazardly that she might as well be wearing a neon sign that said 'just had sex'. She smiles, toothy and proud, and it cuts Thea to pieces. "The woman of the hour."