The building, if he is honest, strikes him mostly with its ugliness: the ostentation of its size and its architecture, the way it looms into the starlit sky as though to blot out the moon. And yet, it seems to him that there is a loveliness to it even so, lent to it solely by her presence; that fact makes the crass monument to wealth beckon to him despite it all, for where she lives must surely have some beauty to it.

Which does not mean he is less than happy to turn away from the building and towards her; nor that he lingers on its presence for good or for ill once he sees how the moonlight catches on the green of her eyes, once he feels her hand come up to his hair. There is no space then for any thought at all but the instinctive joy that rises in him, and he leans in to meet her as she rises to her toes, his mouth settling against hers as though it has always been made to fit there. Her lips are as soft as he had imagined, and her breath is heavy with the lingering scent of wine and chocolate, and it feels as though in that moment all the world slows around them; that they are here caught in a moment that belongs in a storybook, with his free hand sliding onto the gentle curve of her side and his eyes slipping closed as he pulls her just a little closer.