This time, she didn't tense when he grabbed her. Even without him broadcasting his intent up their bloodline, she had seen it coming. And even if she hadn't, she was goddamn ready for it. No one had touched her – really touched her – for a month.
Not that she'd really wanted to be touched; and she was grateful to Cicero for giving her that space.
Like always, she met him, chest to chest and tilted her head up to press her lips against his – now cold to cold. The fire was still there, singing through the blood they shared, but muted by an unconscious hesitance. She raised a hand, wanting to tangle her fingers tight in his hair –
and her shopping bags bumped against his knee, reminding her of where they were, and what still had to be done tonight.
But before it could go any further, she pulled away, cursing through grit teeth. "God. Dammit." Frustration bubbled up in her belly, electric and sharp down their bloodline. She looked at the ground, knuckles tight.
I need my head clear, she told him, and showed him a memory of her bandmates to let him know what she meant. If she didn't want to hurt them, she would need her thoughts to be as unmuddled as possible. And letting this go anywhere would be probably the most thought-muddling action she could reasonably take.
Then, by way of apology, she showed him a hint of the confusion she felt, swirling like butterflies and unmixed paint in her solar plexus I'm new at this. Feelings.