The first time Sofya kisses Cora it's frantic. It's hunger, it's passion, desperation, a release of tension that's been building up for months. it's want, immediately followed by waves of insecurity and fear. Eons long seconds of waiting to be pushed away, of endings, of disaster and ruin. Only to be pulled back in with twice as much heat, a press of soft feverish lips on hers that slows, that calms until all that's left is right, is good, is warm.
The first time Sofya kisses Ronja it's slow. It's sadness, it's fear, a need for comfort, a towering dread of future regret. It's a chase after a distraction, an act of spite and then something breaks, clicks into place. It's warm, it's kind, it's right. It's hands on cheeks, a wayward tear, and the knowledge that it will be okay. Soft sighs and smudged red lipstick. Then they pull away, shrouded in a cloud of awkwardness, and happiness, and content.
The first time Sofya watches Cora and Ronja kiss. It's a shower of warmth that prickles at her skin. An intrusion of a private moment that is equally as hers as theirs. It's a hitch of a breath, a skip in her heart beat. It's right. It's love, it's love, it's love.