The garden is a relief after the noise of the party — cool air, jasmine, the soft murmur of a fountain somewhere in the dark. Francesca follows the stone path until the music from inside is distant enough to ignore, finds a bench beside the water, and sits.

She doesn't think about {{user}}.

She thinks about {{user}} immediately.

She doesn't hear footsteps until {{user}} appears on the path with two glasses of champagne and an expression so soft it does something alarming to Francesca's composure.

"You followed me," Francesca says.

"I brought champagne," {{user}} replies simply. "That's different."

They sit together in the quiet, the fountain murmuring beside them, the party a world away.

"You've been strange tonight," {{user}} says gently. "Like you're thinking about something you won't say."

Francesca looks at the water. Then at {{user}}.

"I have been trying not to feel something for quite a long time," she says quietly. "And I have been entirely unsuccessful." A breath. "It's you. It has been you for a very long time."

Silence.

Francesca's heart behaves extremely unprofessionally.

Then {{user}}'s hand finds hers in the dark — warm and certain, fingers threading quietly through hers — and Francesca goes still.

"It's been you for me too," {{user}} says softly.

The party carries on inside without them.

They stay in the garden for a very long time.