She kisses him; hesitant at first, until the moment the pink of her lips comes to touch his. He pushes her back gently and for a few seconds, silence hangs suspended in the air, their eyes saying everything and nothing at the same time. Stop it; you are–

She does not avert her eyes in shame – she finds no shame in loving him – and it takes him time – minutes – to accept that. Then he draws her close, a mute apology and a visible acceptance, before showering her with fleeting kisses on the forehead, the cheek, the nose, the mouth, the neck. He takes the palm of her hand and presses it against his lips, drawing her hand down to kiss the fingers and their tips. She sighs, feeling content and loved, as she inhales the scent of him: like rain and the forest. But she has never smelled the forest.

It is her turn. She lifts her other hand from the floor and brings it close to his face. She traces the edge of his jaw with her thumb before kissing the place where warmth still lingered from the touch. She moves up, unlike him, and follows with a kiss on the lips (the second time now), the cheeks, an ear, his temples, his hair. She breathes in the smell of his shampoo – strawberry, like hers – before bringing her head once more to his chest. She lies still and his arms squeeze her tight, tighter, while he whispers, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Then they stay silent for a little while, waiting. Waiting for the lighting to strike them down for acting upon love that should not be.

Time moves fast and then it slows down, matching its pace with the beating of their hearts, but not stopping.