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Lucy’s face flushes as red as her hair, the color swallowing the freckles dotted like constellations across her cheeks. She stumbles over a reply, but Gin hardly registers the half-words falling from her lips. They reach out, instinctive, as if pulled by gravity.
When their fingers brush Lucy’s skin, they find a pleasant heat.
They cradle her cheek against their palm, and Lucy’s stammering quiets.
“Gin?” she whispers, flustered and breathless.
Gin leans in, pressing their lips to Lucy’s other cheek and relishing in the warmth. “Sorry,” they mumble, words meant for Lucy’s ears only. “You’re too pretty to resist.”