Camouflage

The moment you hear the word bachelorette you know the evening is hopeless. She is more colleague than friend, but you never were adept at refusals, especially when persistence mixes with that particular lilt of please? and you always stare at the phone afterwards wondering how it happened again.

Party is the furthest thing from your middle name. So when the night arrives, you hunker down in your dim bar corner and grip the stem of your wineglass like a soldier arming for battle. Camouflage is much more your style. You can blend and pass like the best of chameleons. Unwanted eyes overlook you. So though you squirm on the inside and stand on the outskirts of dancing bodies and laughing circles, on the outside you smile, you mingle. You can manage that much without losing too much of yourself in the process.

It's a balance you perfected from a young age. A necessity for survival. And if your eyes stray towards the clock more often than they should between sips of sweet moscato, there is no one amongst the press of drunken bodies who will call you on it.

During one such glance, you meet the eyes of an intriguing woman across the room. The abrupt connection is jarring at first and you hurry to look elsewhere. You don't know her name, but for some reason you find your gaze gravitating towards her. Perhaps because of that unnamed law of physics that demands hyperawareness anytime you accidentally meet someone's eyes in a crowded room. Maybe it's the wildness of her dark curls. Or maybe it's the slope of her neck and the slant of her jaw, the way her lips twitch with an almost smile the second time you catch her looking and a small jolt ricochets through your organs in a not-entirely-unpleasant way.

Maybe it's a touch of fate giving you a subtle nudge.

You discover through various routes of inquiry that she's the best friend of the bride-to-be's cousin, and she lives nearby. Gossip and alcohol are directly proportional, and more information comes without your coaxing: she's an officer of the law.

You raise an eyebrow. A noble profession. Dangerous. You are impressed, and your lips curl against the rim of your glass as you take another sip. The fruity taste blooms along your tongue, and you close your eyes to savor the scent.

During a toast, your head thrown back laughing at whatever obnoxious innuendo someone just shouted, you feel something brush your arm. Your head lowers, and you're eye to eye once more with the mysterious woman. Close enough to notice details like eyelash length and a tiny white scar.

Her eyes are brown.

She's smiling.

Fate's nudge is turning into a shove. You wonder who will catch you if you stumble.

She tells you her name. Jane. You manage a full sentence without stuttering or falling into suffocating silence.

You talk.

Her low voice is gravel on a rainy day—smooth and rough at the same time. It surprises you. Defies physics and injects your veins with a warmth that builds as it spreads. The same way her breath does when it hits your ear as you lean closer to hear above the noise.

You laugh.

Her laugh crinkles the corners of eyes lined with dark lashes and turns deep brown into warm caramel. She runs a hand through messy curls occasionally, brushing them back from angular features. The zipper on the sleeve of her leather jacket swings with the movement, catching your eye every time.

"What do you do, Maura?"

Her expression is open and interested, belying her causal posture as she sits across the booth from you. It's distracting, and you take focused breaths to steady your heartbeat. You trace your finger along the rim of your glass, toying with a small smudge of lipstick marring the clear finish.

"I'm an orthopedic surgeon."

Her features register surprise. "Local?"

She rests her weight on her forearms, leaning forward. It distracts you—unnerves and excites you—this genuine interest so rapt that seems to urge her physically closer.

"Yes."

You convince yourself you imagine the pleasure in her eyes.

Despite the unusual allure of this stranger, she is still that: a stranger. And you hesitate. Caution is a lesson you have learned too often in the past.

You redirect. "What about you?"

Her eyes flicker, and you catch the beginnings of an involuntary smile. "A cop. Just another uniform." She shrugs as though it is nothing. Maybe to her it is.

But for many people, you know it is everything.

You are intrigued.

"Maura!"

The call draws your eyes up and away, reluctant. Stacy, the bride, emerges from the crowd, waving a hand in the air. Her short veil hangs askew, dangling off one side of her flushed face. You're familiar with the inebriated side of your colleague, and while she is one of the brightest pediatric oncologists in Massachusetts, you do not care to share her company when playfulness acquires a new definition.

"Come meet Jake!" She points to an ambiguous spot behind her.

You don't bother with a response.

Jane sits back. Her eyes turn apologetic as they drop, her smile rueful. "Forgive me. I'm monopolizing you're time."

You shake your head, hand reaching out but falling short of her wrist where it rests on the table. "Not at all. It's a pleasure." Her eyes meet yours once more, and you curl your fingers in, feeling exposed. "An unexpected one."

Your admission is quiet, and you're unsure she heard until a dark eyebrow rises in question. You find yourself telling truths normally reserved for close friends or your pet tortoise at home.

"I didn't expect to enjoy myself tonight."

She stills at your words. Her eyes trace your features in a slow sweep, as though searching, reevaluating. Memorizing. You don't know what she sees, but her face softens into an unguarded emotion that tugs at something inside you.

"Me either," she murmurs, and you read the words more than hear them.

After that, you forget the meaning of camouflage.

The tightness in your chest and limbs is long forgotten, and since when did you end up sitting in the booth beside her, knee gripped around the bend of your elbow, and it's already midnight? Because the bride-to-be has risen, and so has everyone else. You blink, unsure in your sudden disappointment and disorientation. But there is a hand on your wrist, there then gone. A touch far too feather-light to ignite your nerves so.

Whoever said brown eyes are ordinary has never seen hope colored in cinnamon.

She smiles again, and you hear phone and later and talk and before you know it you're gripping the hard casing of your cell, screen still alight with entered information, and your sappy mind can't help but think how the mirroring glow inside you feels like liquid courage and ecstasy mixed into a heady concoction more potent than any cocktail.

You're swept into the tide of exiting bar-goers. Jane's fingers find your elbow amidst all the shuffling, a gentle tether that tugs on more than just your arm. The clack of your heels changes cadence when you step onto wet concrete and take your first breath of night air devoid of stale alcohol and unwashed bodies.

Jane turns to face you, breath pluming white in the space between you as she tucks her hands into her pockets.

She shuffles her feet. You clasp your hands at your waist.

After a short silence, you're bid adieu, a brief goodbye—no, not goodbye:

"See you later."

There's a question in that statement. A request, edged with hope. You can tell. And it is this, more than anything, that leaves you breathless in the growing chill of midnight darkness.

It's a good thing you never refilled that last glass of wine, because you want to remember that look in brown eyes as she turns, that half-smile that melts the glow from your middle into a steady burn.

You stand in the misty drizzle on a wet sidewalk, breath deep and even on a chilly night, and watch her retreating form. You turn your face to the sky, feel the wet smoothness of rain, and smile.

You are not one for dramatics, but you feel reborn beneath the heaven's relentless benediction.

A/N: Part one of two or three. Strongly influenced and inspired by Rose. Thanks for letting me grab this and run. :)