Combeferre knows they are short on time, and she should be rushing, but she pauses in the entry to the kitchen, absently finishing adjusting the fit of her bra as she studies Grantaire.
Grantaire takes barely a moment to notice, glancing up and offering Combeferre a wry smile. Her curls are barely held down by her slouch knit hat, framing her face and backlit by early morning sunlight, and the bunched sleeves of her cardigan just cover the tattoos that Combeferre has traced with her mouth.
“Hey,” Grantaire says, not quite stressed, but clearly feeling the press of the clock. “We’re gonna have to stop for breakfast on the way in, but I’ve got coffee ready to go and I made you lunch, too.”
“You’re lovely,” Combeferre blurts out before she can stop herself, touched by the fact that Grantaire put together lunch for her when they’re not even dating quite yet. Grantaire’s face goes red, and Combeferre is utterly charmed.
“You’d say that to anyone who made you coffee in the morning,” Grantaire deflects, but her smile is soft at the edges. “Come on, Floréal promised to kill me if I made you late to work.”
Combeferre steals a precious second to kiss her cheek all the same.
It’s a cool day and a calm one, not quite stormy or overcast, but the light coming in through the windows is soft and pale. It will be radiator weather soon, Combeferre is sure, but not quite yet.
It’s comfortable enough like this, pressed shoulder to shoulder with Grantaire on the couch. Her legs, curled under her, are starting to ache a little, though, and she stretches them out a bit, embroidery hoop held loosely in her lap.
“Going well?” Grantaire asks, glancing over from her novel, glasses slipped partway down her nose. There’s an uncommon, still contentment to her, and she looks at Combeferre as though she’s radiating all the warmth in the world.
“I think so,” Combeferre says, peering down at her stitches. They’re a little uneven, nothing spectacular, but she’s finally getting the hang of it. Maybe she could do something for her sister’s kitchen, something with bright colors.
Grantaire snorts, but her look is fond. “You and your hobbies.”
“Mm-hm,” Combeferre agrees, under no denial that she’ll have moved on to another interest in a week or two.
She curls her weight closer, and smiles into Grantaire’s kisses.