“How do you feel when I smile at you” he asked—and then he did smile at her, just a little.
Not like myself, she thought.
She gripped his hands tightly, for balance, then stood on tiptoe, leaning her chin over his shoulder and brushing her head gently against his cheek. It was smooth, and he smelled heavy there, like perfume and mint.
“Like an idiot,” she said softly. “And like I never want it to stop.”