...

There was something about human touch that made her feel alive.

Perhaps it was the fact that she'd received so very little of it growing up within the confines of walls and manicured gardens and armed bodyguards that she'd come to crave just the feeling of skin.

But was she desperate? No.

She leaned as far back as she could into the leather seat and left her hands unmoored - but really it was because she didn't know what to do with them.

It was funny because Delphine always prided herself on being the captain of her own ship, and now here she was in the darkness of unknown waters, moonlight reflecting in flashes over the pale of the girl's skin that lay asleep on her lap. A conglomeration of dreadlocks cradled in the black of the coat that covered the legs underneath, ever still yet shooting with sparks like SOS flares from those lost at sea.

And how the hand that gripped the edge of her black coat seemed to hold on like the castaways, thinking it was a lifesaver. Delphine wondered if the girl had ever been held before.

She thought again about her hands and trembled. There was a feeling rising on the ridges of her throat, and she tried so hard not to look at the girl in her lap but out the window, hoping her eyes wouldn't give her away to the jury of the night.

But look where your hands are now.

She felt the rise and fall of skin, of wrist bones peering out of red sleeves.

...

She rolled over and groaned at the throb of her head, of its weight. Sure, she was a smart kid, but she didn't think her brain was this heavy. And if she was so smart how come she couldn't remember why everything ached?

She reached for her glasses but did not manage to swipe the side table. Maybe she wasn't so clumsy after all.

But after another attempt, she realized that perhaps there was no side table after all. Where did it go?

She wearily opened her eyes at a blur of white and dawn and light. The fragrance of lilies. She was pretty sure she'd put the one saved lily away to dry, but didn't think one could count a dried lily kept in a journal in one's drawer as potpourri? Or be able to even smell it? (Let's forget the fact that she kept it in her journal.)

She stirred her hands up to the covers. They weren't crimson.

Again, white.

Is this heaven?

"Your glasses are on the other side of the bed," spoke a familiar voice.

If this is heaven… why does that voice still sound like Del—

Fuck.

She flung her hand over and felt the frames of her focus. She began to remember the faint bar lights and of a funny beer called Hoegaarden. Fuck.

She shot up in the sheets and rammed the glasses onto her face and blinked.

And blinked again.

In front of her was a luxurious room with off-white walls, fancy furnishings, mahogany accents, and beautiful satin drapes on tall windows that let in almost blinding proportions of light that filled the space up to its tall ceilings. The bed was dressed in white sheets covered with a light blue-green comforter and matching pillow covers. And to the left, sitting on the salon chair by the tea set next to the window across the room from the bed, sat the girl with the soft blonde curls.

"Delphine!"

The blonde smirked and placed her book down. "Glad to see you're alive."

"What happened - where am I?" She clutched the covers up her chest, half-terrified that she'd truly finally been abducted by the mafia. At least it seemed like a classy mafia.

Delphine turned to pick up a ceramic teapot covered in fleur de lis and continued, ever relaxed. "The guest bedroom."

Cosima blinked. "The guest bedroom where?"

Delphine turned back to face her and gave a tight-lipped smile. "Of my penthouse."

"What." She remembered the weight in her head and how it seemed to pulse with the interesting thought that she. Was. In. Delphine's. Penthouse.

Huh.

"What…" she repeated, this time in a murmur followed by a shake of her head. Who the hell goes to college and owns a penthouse? The mafia.

"Would you like some tea?" her host interrupted with a smirk, holding the pot over an empty cup.

"Uh… no, uh," she stuttered, unsure of where to move and where her hands were.

Delphine looked at her with a scrunched brow and set the pot back down. "Do you remember what happened last night?"

She grasped and pushed at her glasses. "Um.." She blew a breath and recalled the soft bar lights. "Sheehan's and… Hoegaarden…" she mumbled.

"Which you had too much of," Delphine added with a stern look.

Cosima chuckled. "Yeah.. repetitions.. of Hoegaarden." She finally met the girl's eyes studying her. "What?"

Delphine inhaled a knowing smile and picked up her tea. "Nothing."

Cosima crumpled her brows and looked down at the sheets and her pajamas. They were navy blue and silk and she thought them pretty. But as far as she knew she didn't own navy blue - let alone silk - pajamas, nor even with her eclectic style would she wear pajamas to a bar.

An anxious notion crept into her mind and her hands began fiddling with themselves.

"Delphine…"

"Yes?"

"Whose pajamas are these…?"

"Mine."

Fantabulous. She swallowed thickly. "Um…"

The blonde looked at her with a bemused expression. "You can't sleep in the same clothes you wore out to a crowded bar, Cosima."

"Delphine… uh—" she struggled as she hurtled through the hazy memories of the night prior to remember if she'd done anything to reveal her subconscious.

"I know that, uh, alcohol…" Because she feared it, she needed to keep a hold on it. "Might have clouded, uh… my judgement…" Because she liked this stupid penthouse mafia princess that she would have—

What would she have done last night?

"And… I'm, uh… sorry… for—"

"For falling on me?" her host offered with a grin.

She shook her head. "I fell on you?"

Here was this girl who had probably captured her in her penthouse tower, forever to be locked away in whatever madness millionaires do in their spare time, and yet seeing Delphine this morning was like awakening in the room itself, like seeing light for the first time. And as Cosima thought it would be fall for, not on, she realized that whatever the state of the world and its words were, or whatever the state of her mind was, whether drunk or sober, Delphine would forever remain beautiful.

"Oui," Delphine continued. "You tried to climb down a bar stool but weren't in a state to get anywhere, and the others had already left… so I took you home."

"So we…" She could feel the heat in her cheeks as she posed the actual query concerning the pajamas. "We didn't…"

The blonde studied her again. "Didn't what?"

"You know… do anything."

Delphine paused gave another tight-lipped smile. "You were out like a marooned ship with saliva on your cheeks."

Cosima blushed. "Oh, um. I'm… sorry for the mess and-and—"

What Delphine didn't mention was how she had wet a towel and wiped the saliva tenderly off those flushed cheeks. How she had noticed the smudging of eyeliner and carefully wiped that clean too. She noticed it all. Like how she'd never taken care of anyone else her whole life and what Cosima in the guest bedroom could mean other than I wouldn't mind taking care of you on Sunday mornings.

"It's no problem," she quipped. "It was… pleasant."

But what she really meant was the temperature of your cheeks were so lovely. Or, would you have coffee with me?

But Cosima was still holding up the covers and perhaps it was too soon to sail the infinite space between them that morning, and Cosima didn't want tea.

Come to think of it, neither did she, but it was something for her hands to do - her hands which she'd been finding it increasingly difficult to keep still.

So she rose and strode towards the door in her grey wrap cardigan, opening it and standing to the side as a maid entered to bring in a tray filled with breakfast, Frédéric following in after.

She met Cosima's eyes. "And, no, we didn't. I had my maids change you."

Cosima stared wide-eyed as a fine wooden lap tray table was placed in front of her with her breakfast essentials, including spreads on a very familiar baguette, the identity confirmed upon looking at the Bean & Cream Roasters coffee cup in the cup holder.

"What, no coffee sleeve today?" she teased.

"I thought you didn't like the intrusion," Delphine replied.

They looked at one another for a little while, correlating this new experience of seeing Delphine in her natural environment and Cosima in her "morning after" state.

Delphine broke the silence. "Frédéric will bring you back to your dormitory after you've had your breakfast, along with anything else you might need."

"…Thank you," Cosima answered, her hands still fidgeting under the tray, still in search of how to feel about recent events. "Where are you going?"

"It's Sunday. I have a conference with my parents," she replied half-heartedly. She'd always wondered about what it would be like to experience that time in her life when all she'd ever want to do was have a conversation with someone for as long as she could imagine, not realizing until now that the time had come that very first day at the coffee shop around the corner.

She moved to leave, but paused by the doorway to turn, reflecting.

"It was… nice… to have you over."

...

"So I'm guessing she's already had breakfast," she gestured, picking up a piece of bread.

Frédéric strode over and placed her bag on the side table before looking up and saying, "I hope so, Miss, it's, em… actually time for afternoon tea."

"Afternoon tea? Shit— sorry, for the - uh - language, Fred-uh- what…" she dove for her phone, noting all her other effects intact as she rummaged. "…time is it?"

The screen flickered on. 2PM.

5 missed calls and 3 messages. Art, Angie, Kenneth.

Shit.

"Your clothes from last night should be brought up in clean fashion," Frédéric continued.

"What?" she looked up, sputtering. "You didn't have to—"

"I didn't have to," he lifted a brow. "But Madame wanted it."

"Oh."

He waved his hand at the doorway. The maid entered with an outfit cloaked in a hanger sleeve and laid it at the foot of the bed. "Madame also requested that you be given a new outfit to avoid, em, what was it… a 'walk of shame', as she put it."

Cosima snorted at the phrase and the fact that Delphine knew what that was. But how did she know - did she research it, or experience it first hand?

"Is something the matter, Miss?" Frédéric pressed.

"What?"

He motioned at her nose. "Do you have sinus issues? Shall I request a physician?"

"What? No. Fred…ric," she blinked a few times, wondering if he was patronizing her or being serious. "I was snorting—" she shook her head as she waved him off.

He scrunched his brow.

"It's like an expression."

"I see."

"I thought it was funny."

"Bien. 'Snorting'. I understand, Miss. Well, if that would be all, I will be in the parlor if you are ready to be taken back to university."

She studied him as he stood and straightened his suit. He was a good-looking fellow. Sturdy, attentive - as how a bodyguard or butler should be she figured. A little awkward and serious, but that could be fixed.

"Fred, buddy, I think you need to get out more. Or can I call you Freddie?"

"Frédéric," he stated with a stern yet confused look. "And I can't, I must stand guard."

"Well, Delphine said you'll bring me anywhere I need to go, right?"

He furrowed a brow and slowly nodded. "That is.. correct, oui."

...

Fresh from a shower and decked in a whole new set of clothes that somehow fit all of her curves - which she concluded were bought specifically for her (as to how Delphine managed to procure clothing in the time from last night to that morning was still a mystery - mafia powers, perhaps), she was finally able to sit at the vanity and breathe.

And realize again that this situation was absolutely absurd.

She looked out at the room to take in the view once more. The light was beautiful and reminded her of the farm; a light that she never felt the need to borrow Kat's sunglasses for.

How was this possible.

The extravagances of this room, the private bath that was larger than her dorm room with both a shower and a ridiculous tub - this place. It was all the excess that she never needed because there were always more important things. But somehow, little by little, these embellishments began to decorate the hides of her heartdrum, effecting new sound worlds so booming, so vast. All because they were associated with one woman. She didn't think such violent things could happen to fortified people.

But there she was, two decades on earth of fibrous craftwork of her own making, never having stood in front of someone who's ever made her hands shake so.

She needed to set off on this new venture. One on which she would find out how, out of 7 billion people in the world, the first person who was able to inspire in her such feelings was someone whom one would not consider a 'starter' date.

Perhaps she'd always been overly ambitious all her life and this would be no exception.

She chuckled to herself at the mental proposition of the word 'date'.

Too ambitious. Too awkward.

She was still unsure of what was happening between them, or of what really was on the frenchwoman's mind. So Cosima did what any follower of the scientific method would do; she would research, try things, conclude with the results.

She took one last glance at the girl with the dreadlocks in the mirror in front of her and fixed her frames, rolled her lips together to spread the gloss. She stood to see the maroon pants that hugged her bottom perfectly, the loose art deco sweater. It was comfortable. She could rock this.

Walking out to the parlor, the atmosphere was no different - tall ceilings and windows, gracious light, paintings on the walls, an air of lilies. Clean. Sophisticated. A museum almost. She meandered around, her hands grazing fine wooden furnishings and noting the hallway out and its varied doors, wondering behind which one was Delphine's.

"Miss Niehaus."

She whirled around and grinned. "Ready for some Maggie Moo's, Freddie?"

"Maggie Moo—?"

...

"Maggie Moo. Fascinant…" Frédéric mused as he placed the minuscule pink plastic spoon in his mouth to ruminate once more.

"Yup. Best standard fare ice cream shop around these parts, Freddie boy," Cosima grinned.

"You like ice cream," the man stated, dunking the spoon back into the cup.

She placed her empty cup on the side of the wooden picnic table. "Yup."

"In October…" he continued.

The fall breeze took a whip of her hair and she felt a chill, but she didn't care. "Well, I like these things called eskimo pies, but… these will do for now."

He grunted in approval as he downed the last remnants from his paper cup.

"So, Freddie…"

"Frédéric."

"Fred…right." Her eyes scanned to the sides as she leaned forward, clasping her hands together. "So Delphine is really a… princess," she treaded.

"A pretender to the throne," he quipped, looking back through the wooden door of the ice cream shop.

"So, what - she pretends to be a princess?" she mused.

He turned back with a stern look. "Madame is the eldest daughter of le descendent supérieur of Louis XIV. She has the blood of la maison de Bourbon in her veins and is recognized as Her Royal Highness by the French Minister of Justice - she needs not the act of pretending."

"Okay, okay. Easy, Fred. I was just…"

His features softened. "Forgive me. It is my nature to be protective of my charges. Although the throne is extinct, it is still a difficult title to bear."

Cosima lifted her brows. "And why is that?" Unsure of being impertinent, her curiosity got the better of her and she pressed. "I understand being recognized civil-wise and socially has its responsibilities, but is it really that much for a throne that doesn't exist anymore? I mean, it's not like 'Game of Thrones' we're talking here…"

Frédéric didn't reprimand her, but instead looked away with quiet fortitude. "Non, not a game. A business…" he cleared his throat and turned back to her. "Never mind that. Shall we deliver you to your dormitory?"

"A business?" She was becoming more and more compelled to know more though her mind went back to her morning deliberations. "But… not a - a mafia business… right?"

The bodyguard glanced down at her intently before broadening a smile into a hearty laugh. "J'en suis bouche bée! Is that what you thought?"

"Well—"

"Non non non. I can see why Madame likes you," he chuckled while leading them back to the car.

She looked up somewhat embarrassed. "Uh.. Why?"

"Rigolo.. You're funny," he snorted.

...

"Au revoir, Papa."

She placed the receiver back onto the phone set and sat for a while. She was always glad to be left in the silence of her own head.

She ran her hands up and down her arms and down to her legs. She shouldn't have taken off her robe.

She felt a familiar trench on her left leg. Scars on her knees from running through the thickets on the edges of the estate in her white skirt, stumbling like some wobbly deer child. Legs too long to control, always wanting to run.

A princess should always take care of her knees, her mother would scold. Who's going to marry you with knees like those?

But she always knew that there'd be someone out there. Someone who liked running - in heels, even - who disobeyed too easily yet loved those they disobeyed too much, who wasn't afraid to show their scars, and who secretly fancied ice cream in the cold. Someone who appreciated the part of her that wasn't allowed to be as well as the part of her that she allowed herself to be.

And perhaps they were feeling alone like she was, but that perhaps one day she'd bump into them on the street to come together at last for a lifetime of conversation as stimulating as black coffee.

It could be her, she thought, then laughed at the numerous times her invitation had been rejected.

Just then, her mobile blipped on the writing desk. She wondered if Frédéric would tell her if Cosima had given him a hard time, but upon picking it up, it wasn't him.

A new number.

— Hey, it's Cosima! I just wanted to say thanks for taking care of me last night. I owe ya. —

She blinked several times before opening her messages to type a reply.

— No prob.| —

Is that how they say it? she contemplated, her thumbs hovering as the cursor blinked.

— No prob :-) (but how did you get my number?) —

She hit send. It was a strange feeling, having someone else to text message besides her bodyguard - she always handled business by phone call.

A blip.

— Freddie boy. But please don't get mad at him! I forgot to ask during class when I asked for your help so… :) —

She smiled at poor Frédéric's nickname tribulations and realized she didn't mind 'texting' Cosima at all.

— It's okay. Did you get back to your dorm? —

— Yup! Did your parental conference go well? —

Cosima's responses were quick. She wondered if they should take it slow, but then laughed at herself once again because she could just reply later if she wished it.. only she didn't.

— It did :-) —

And then a pause. Should she have replied with a lengthier message? And why was she even second guessing herself when she'd never had problems attracting whoever she'd wanted to?

Finally, her screen flashed once more.

— Good to hear :)

I was just wondering… do you want to be partners for the Classics presentation? —

The drums were beating again and she took in a breath. A foolish smile crept onto her face that she tried to dispose of by standing to turn up the thermostat. But it was to no avail.

— Oui :-) — she replied, before scampering up in her slip to prepare her effects for the rest of the day, leaving her robe slung over the chair.

...

A week passed like breezes on sails with a semblance of quiet promises yet fresh and full of whimsy. They met after class in the center tables of the library, moving on to the side tables against the windows of the cafeteria by midweek. Books open to Galileo's heliotropism, unbeknownst of their own encircling thoughts of the other like satellites of their respective suns.

There was once the world, but none of it seemed to matter in this moment.

And look where your eyes are now —

She noted the light in the hazel eyes across from hers as they met on the path that day.

Perhaps she was right. Perhaps someone was out there running around through thickets looking for their someone also, which is why they always seemed out of breath.

They slowed to recognize the other in their own quiet amidst the students with their backpacks and messengers and textbooks walking faster and faster around them as they stopped.

Cosima smiled as the blonde lifted her leather bag strap in place on her shoulder and looked at her.

She recalled being scolded at the age of six upon sneaking up to the breakfast table to sniff at the wonderful aroma, daring to take a sip of the hot liquid.

Don't drink that coffee, her mother had said. Wait 'til you're older. You won't grow.

And again when she was thirteen upon making her first cup. Wait 'til it cools down, they said. You might burn your tongue.

But in secret she would sip when they weren't looking. She didn't sleep much, she burned her tongue. She had tried frappes afterwards, but they never came close to the warmth and fervor that brew would leave in the fibers of her chest.

When she was eighteen, she remembered crying of heartburn from a cup of Joe.

"Hello," the blonde greeted, her voice bound to honey. "…Do you want to finish the powerpoint at the cafe tomorrow?"

Cosima gazed at the tall frame standing in front of her, the feeling of macchiato weaving braids all over her ribcage. They had never brought up the coffee shop. There was no mention of the past weekend's events.

What would you say?

She shook her head. "Don't worry, I got it."

Or maybe, You're the one I've been waiting for my whole life.

But she was stubborn and never listened - why listen to her heart now? Maybe she'll never know how to say yes, always going for the goodbyes instead of the hellos.

Or perhaps she just needed a push.

Back in her dorm, surrounded by the textbooks and trappings of a pre-med student, she pulled out her journal and flipped to a photo of her posing in Kat's shades, a taller girl with pink hair looking on proudly from the background.

She had listened then.

...

Delphine pondered the events of the past week. Their quiet glances as they discussed the presentation outline, their silly arguments over the format and who should present what, the pauses before saying goodbye.

The fact that Cosima had messaged her first.

Why would she not want to finish it together?

And she remembered that first weekend in that white dress, looking out at the gardens and feeling tentative about what her mother would say. She ran anyway.

She picked up her phone and hovered over the inbox. She opened their conversation and tapped the reply button. But this wasn't a reply.

She opened her contacts and found an entry. She took a breath and pressed the phone icon.

...

The phone buzzed on her desk.

She looked up at the finished presentation then back at the display.

Delphine.

She could let it go to voicemail. But she found her hands had picked up the mobile for her.

"Hello."

"Hi."

"It's me."

"I know. Heh, I - uh - caller ID."

A pause. A breeze.

"Would you like to have coffee with me?"

She took a breath.

She pushed off the harbor of her desk and smiled like a fool.

"…Yes."

...