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“Would you be terribly offended if I asked if I could kiss you again?”

There’s blood on his lips and his knuckles. His hair is disheveled; his jacket is missing. Joan licks her lips, an affirmative burning her tongue.


He gives a self-deprecating grin.

“You’re right. I shouldn’t press my luck, should I?”

If someone told her five years ago that this was the man she was going to fall for, she’d have laughed that person out of the room.

“Stop talking,” she breathes.

She pulls him by his tie and kisses him before he can utter another syllable.