Lyra had leaned right over, eyes wide as she looked at their names on the certificate. That black and white, legally binding bit of an ancient institution she'd never seriously thought she'd be a part of. Well maybe. A bit. It was hard not to— their whole culture— but she'd certainly never romanticised marriage. Till last night. Till right now.
She was romanticising the fuck outta it now. "Well, get used to it," she said, smirking back and shoving against him with her shoulder (and ugh, movement sucked, but she would power through.) "Fucking hell, look at us," she had to grab his phone again, staring at it, swiping back to the certificate to stare at it again. Lyra Aquilina Campbell, Avery Tristan Duffield — and there under 'bride's parents' were Jemima Campbell and Patrick Finnegan. That was more familial connections than were on her birth certificate by like, three hundred percent.
Goddamn this felt good. Apart from the hangover. That did not. Lyra very much wanted to lie down and take tentative sips of very strong very sweet coffee while Avery stroked her head. But the thought of getting up to find coffee, uuugh...
Slowly it dawned on Lyra, and the dawning idea was much, much more welcome than the actual dawn (it wasn’t dawn, at all— that sun out there was a midday desert sun, Lyra had been very, very passed out when the real dawn had dawned) that she did not have to get up at all. That one of the offerings of this hotel that had been out of reach before last night wasn't out of reach any more.
"Aves..." she said, in wonder. "We can order room service. Someone will bring us coffee."