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He can’t find her anywhere.
Everyone has begun to disperse and, well, that’s fine. Preferred even. He’s loved the company, loves — present tense — the reason for celebrating, but his leg is aching something awful and he’s ready to be in bed with a M*A*S*H rerun on low.
Not before finding her, though.
She’s not in the kitchen; good, he would have had something to say about that. Says the something to Dana now, who levels him with a trademark Evans glare and only doubles down on washing the dish in her hands.
She’s not outside either, where Robby and Baran are sharing a smoke, a goddamn miracle.
She must have already left then and, really, it’s okay. He just would have liked to say goodbye to her, that’s all. Hardly crossed paths with her all night even though he’d been the one playing host. Understandable, though — everyone wanted time with the guest of honor, heaping her with praise and congratulations on her new position at Presby next door.
He’s just about to give up on his quest when he sees a figure poised in the hallway to his guest bedroom. Her hair is down, her feet bare, her cardigan from earlier tied around her shoulders now that she’s been warmed by the wine. He can’t see her face, though, because she’s staring ahead at a painting: Klimt’s The Kiss, a craft store reproduction he’s had up for longer than he can remember, one of a handful of prints bringing color and life to his place.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Caught, Samira glances behind her and bites back a smile. “Sneaking up on me?”
“I’m not exactly subtle, Mohan,” he says, mouth hitched in a grin.
She laughs breezily. “No, you aren’t,” she supposes, then looks back at the painting. She’s seen it before, of course, but not this close. Not close enough to count the distinct shades of yellow and gold or to see the delicate flora adorning the lovers’ heads. “Beautiful,” she agrees.
“I’ve always loved their hands: the way he cradles her face, the way she holds him as he holds her. His hands aren’t where you’d normally hold a lover, are they?” he muses aloud, voice pitched low like they’re sharing a secret. Her throat tightens in response. “They’re at her brow line,” he continues. “Her cheekbone. Somehow it makes it more tender. More . . . reverent.”
Samira turns again at that, and even in the low light, he can make out her individual lashes, impossibly long. There’s what’s behind them, too, his own wistful reverence reflected in her gaze.
When their eyes meet, it’s like they’re seeing each other for the first time.
He loves her, of course — a given. But the revelatory thing is that, somehow, he thinks she might actually feel the same about him. He’d brush it off as the delusions of a lonely old man if it hadn’t quickly become habit for her to join him for a post-shift meal or linger at his side at the Hub or on the nights he’s around for beers on the benches.
He likes her lingering. Likes when she laughs, too, and likes being the one to draw out said laughter with some comment she isn’t expecting. The first time he got a genuine giggle out of her, he’d wanted to bottle the sound. Same with her irreverent snort, pure and unfiltered.
Now, though, after years of it — years of necessary restraint — neither of them are laughing as she leans in.
It’s just a brush of her lips against his cheek, not unlike the painting in front of them; and maybe it’s because of this similarity, or maybe it’s because of something else entirely, but when she pulls away with a demure, “Good night, Jack. Thanks for everything,” he reaches for her instinctively, his hand catching her wrist.
“Samira.”
“Yes,” she answers.
It isn’t a question.
She’s a dream, soft and sweet and warm, her lips parting in a quiet sigh against his. His hand moves from hers to around her waist and she fits herself against him, lets him lean her back just so to deepen the kiss in an unconscious mirror of the Klimt.
It’s over far too quickly, so quickly that she brings a hand up to her mouth to touch her lips as if in disbelief. It’s only after she’s looked from him to the painting and back again that she whispers, “So that’s what that feels like.”
And then she’s smiling, heat sitting high on her cheeks, and he can’t help but do the same.