Shi kisses him. It's odd, stilted at first, like a child peeking during a prayer. Her lips melt to his and she hums for the sweetness of his taste. Her hands hold his face, keeping him close. "You're good to me. Better than I deserve."
He doesn’t know if she’s kissed like this before. She’s a woman of edges like daggers, shattered and bruising like the stained windows of cathedral glass, and this language is too foreign, too gentle, and too slow--though she’s trying, she is, and she’s braver than she knows. Truly. Cường waits for her, patient. Their eyes flutter shut, and their mouths, after a long, long second, press together in a delicate and summertime flush. He hums. It’s pleasant, the timbre. And perhaps she makes to learn his mouth’s shape first, kittenish, when the flavors of his noontime strolls hint his mouth with daffodils. Because she’s fiery, he tastes, with those notes of flame and amber, but burning? Smoldering? He’s never feared the sting--no, not ever once. He breathes through his nose. Angling his head, he encourages her to sway alongside him, his sure palm anchoring at the dip of her waist. He thumbs at her chin, and her lips are painted plum, and he’s wonderful for divining this moment like one--or succoring, that is, and with a bumble-bee honey. That’s altogether flattering. A minute or so passes before Cường pulls away. In that meager gap between them, their eyes settle weighty. Glowing. He sweeps back her hair. “You’re a terrible listener,” he mutters, leaning in to pepper the corner of her mouth. It’s unbearable, how his quiet is warmer than the sunlight in her hair. Everything. Everything is so gauzy. “I’ll repeat myself again: I’m as good as you deserve.” Understand? I don’t run charities. I don’t do that. Her eyes wink pretty.
