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Sunday night, and a cold front (complete with showers) had rolled in.

Raindrops on the house-top.

In the dim darkness on the bedroom, the sound was that of gentility. Of soft slowness. Of the pit-pit-patter. Pit-pit ...

... patter. His heart. Patter. Her heart.

Thunder overhead.

Mouse and bat in bed.

In the soft, silky coolness of the sheets, the boom would've made them tremble. Especially the mouse. He who was afraid of thunder. But the thunder was mellowed by the raindrops. Which, themselves, were lost in the heartbeats in the bed. Him. And his mate.

Lightning flashed outside the window.

Forked. Fierce!

In the bright-white illumination that briefly spilled over them, their motions, their yearnings ... were clearly exposed. The pink-furred bat, winged arms wrapped round his back. Her paws holding on. And her legs much the same. Spread and wrapped round, with bare foot-paws in the backs of his legs. The mouse's body lying horizontal atop of her, going at a forward shimmy ... before a brief pause. A briefer pull-back. And, again, a shimmy-slide forward.

Soft, soft, slow.

Pause.

Pause.

Go.

A little sound. A little, wet squishy sound ... too soft and too natural to be called 'squelching' ... came from the source of their delicate, organic union. Where the liquid and the heat of them, the flesh ... melded all together. Secondary love-sounds. Came from the meeting of their hips. And, also, came from the wet, nibbling brushes of their lips.

Little huffs and pants.

Chitters from her. And squeaks from him. Respective sounds.

Never more vulnerable than now. Never more vulnerable than doing this.

That's what made it so intimate.

She held on. Her eyes closed. The lightning, when it flicker-flashed, seen through her eyelids, and every roll of thunder that hence followed ...

... incited, after all, the mouse's body to tense. His muscles to tighten, and his motion to grow stiff. His natural, anxious tendencies. His tenderness. His fight or flight response, tempered by sentience, and wisdom that: he was safe. Truly. Was. And would be.

She eased him as best she could. Which was very well, indeed.

The rain kept falling. And the mouse kept calling (with his squeaks). High-pitched and chained together, between little sucks of air ... there was no mistaking the pleasure brewing there. In him. And her. A simmer and a spark.

Her white fangs, licked to glistening by her versatile tongue, tantalized his neck. Poised, poised above fur (and hidden flesh).

The wind picked up. And creaked the outside shutters.

And his pace.

And her bite.

All urged on. Outpace the storm. Making love a shelter.

Not sheltered love-making.

But shelter-making love!

Drip-drip-drop.

Squeak.

Flash!

Chitter.

BOOM!

Sucking air. Stretching a leg. Clutching with a paw. Neck turning slightly. Fangs sinking in. Eyes fluttering. Whiskers twitching.

Sounds.

Smells. Of her bedtime fur, and the matting pink of her. And him and his mousey-ness, and sweat, and soap, and something else from somewhere ...

... the sight of his tail, thin, ropy, pink. Naked. Hanging in the air, like a silhouette. Like a love-leaning lightning rod.

Emotions spilled. From her to him. And him to her.

More motions spurred.

Rock his body forward, slim and trim and built for rural things. Maybe a bit clumsy, at times. Certainly noticeably effeminate, the male mouse. And so emotional. And so ...

... into her. As she was into him. Her fangs in his neck. Dispelling, compelling ...

... him to keep going.

Her to keep holding.

Neither needing extra bidding. With each other in their noses. With their stretching, bumping toes, and ...

... her stubbier bat tail trapped beneath her, pressing down into the mattress. As her rump was. His rump to the air, and not staying still. Moving with his middle, with his organic, heated grinding. Into the moistened, heated confines of his dear winged thing. His love had wings. He could truly say!

While she of the strong will and the confidence and the sparking playfulness ... held to her artist. As he was. In more ways than one. Making pleasure like this. For the both of them. Conducting the pace and speed.

That two souls could make a thing like this! Blew the mind! Too much to comprehend, and not like a song. Not like a television show.

Different than you'd think.

She, swept away, kept an anchor with her fangs. And magnified it all.

They were both instilling influence.

Both a vital part.

In the blessing of their mate-ship, beneath the eyes of God. Lost in this act ...

... of life!

... of love!

Not enough. Not enough.

More, they wanted, and more ... they went for/wanted more. And more they got.

The storm began to gather for one final go.

The wind, how it howled! The gales, how they blew!

While the young and honest love-furs pretended not to know. Pretended to think the storm was not there. There was no crashing, and no flashing. There was no volatility snapping at their walls.

Only them. Only love. Only God.

Only this.

Shudders and shivers, and chitters!

And weak, weak squeaks. The headboard of the bed hitting the wall a bit with each rock forward. And one of her winged arms slipping off his back to fall limply to the mattress. Holding on with one arm, and fangs still in. Waiting for the finish. For when she could pull out and sigh the deepest sigh! And look him in the eyes!

Prone to scurry-scurry, the mouse resisted any hurry, and tried to hold it back. But the push-and-pull of bodies, and the glowing of their hearts ...

... was too much to put off. To evade, in any part.

He had to let go. Had to break down.

As she huffed a hot, audible breath ... drooling on his neck.

As he, feeling her (as she felt him), hit that sensory overload. That jolting, lime-white heat, and the head-shaking wonder of the ... zip-zip-BAM! Of the fireworks in the brain! And the endurance of the shot!

The flutters and the tremors like earthquakes (so high on the scale)!

Suck air. Spit it out.

Clutch fur. Tug, hold ... until your fingers slip.

The feel of matted fur. A paw straying to a hip.

The soft, soft explorations of the paws and arms ... in the after-images of this. As if trying to figure out what just happened. And how they got through it. As if making sure, "Are you still here?" Feeling each other just to be sure.

Just to know that the other got through the crescendo safely.

For, Lord, the storm had nothing on such release! On such passion! That shook them, and was shaking them still, forcing them to quietly lie there. The weight of each other, and the dampness on the brow.

Who cared why. Who cared how.

Beautiful. And pleasurable.

A many-splendored thing.

Minutes passed. Breathe, breathe. Catch your breath.

And nose each other.

And sigh.

Nearer and nearer to sleep. And to Thee.

So, Field and Adelaide, spent from their love-making, and burrowing into the sheets, snugged tightly together (the mouse still scared of the storm, especially in the absence of being so lost in her). And they both drifted away.

Ready for tomorrow. It was to be a big day.

Come late-afternoon on Monday, when school had let out ... the football team was on the practice field. Forgoing use of the regular field today, for it was a bit soggy, and the coaches didn't want it ruined or muddied up by unnecessary trampling.

One didn't mess with the field.

The sun was back out, true. The clouds hadn't lingered long, leaving soon after dawn. But the air was a good sight chillier than it had been over the weekend. A bit of a bite in the air. A bit of a bluster.

But, then, all the furs had fur (as it came to happen) ... so, it didn't bother them ALL too greatly. Save for their ears, noses, and tails (especially the mice tails) feeling a bit nippy. But they were athletes. They had to handle it.

The coach, the beaver, waddled over to Spitznagle, who was on the sidelines, sulking. "You okay, ma'am?"

"I'm fine."

A pause. And a look around. "You're not on the field." The coach felt neither one way or the other about the librarian's involvement in the team. He was pretty laid-back.

Ma Sparta was sitting on the lowest bleacher ... just a few feet away. And the beaver gave her a quick, bashful look, and then looked away. Which caused Ma, herself, to take a deep breath. And let it out.

"Well, Coach, I ... I think I gotta turn in my notice," Spitznagle said.

"Your notice?"

The raccoon sighed, making a face. "I have to quit the team." It came out as a mumble. This was REALLY not how this was supposed to go. All those dreams! All those schemes! Boiled down to just 'walking away' ...

"Oh."

"Yeah, breaking rules, and ... being a pawn of 'The Board,' and needing Ma's help, and ... long story." Her voice was rather terse. "But I gotta go."

"I see." A pause. "Well, can't say I'm TOO surprised. After all, you've only been with us three days. We don't even have a uniform with your name on it yet."

"Yeah."

A moment of quiet. Broken by Ma clearing her throat.

Spitznagle sighed again. "Oh, yeah, and ... there might be a few robots on your team. Might be. You know. Should check that out."

"Robots?" His eyes widened.

"I'm a robot," Ma said, before anyone could say anything else.

"Well, obviously," Spitznagle responded.

"I'm not telling YOU," the panther replied, squinty-eyed.

"Oh, yeah ... Coach, Ma's a robot. So, she KNOWS who the other robots on the team are. We're gonna deactivate them for you, and ... find another place for them."

The beaver took a step back, shaking his head a bit. "You're a robot? A ... like, I don't get it."

"You live in Sheridan, Indiana," was Ma's response.

A slight nod from the beaver. "That explains it, I guess." A pause. His broad, flat beaver-tail slap-slapped absently at the damp grass. His muzzle twisted into an expression of confusion, his buck-teeth sticking out.

"I used to work for the school. In the cafeteria. A few years ago."

"I've only been here, like, a year," he told Ma.

Ma nodded quietly. "I suppose that's a good thing. You missed a lot. You know of 'The Board,' though, and the Sheridan Network? You'd have to ... "

"I know that Sheridan, Indiana, was severed FROM the Network, and ... the guard trolleys aren't here anymore. I mean, by the time I was here, it was ... in its death throes, all that."

"That was our doing," Ma said. "Me and my friends. But it's not over yet ... " And Ma trailed. She looked to the ground. To her foot-paws. And then back up at him. "I'm afraid I don't know your name. Your proper name."

"Brady."

"Brady the beaver?" Spitznagle said aloud. "Heh ... "

Ma flashed the raccoon a look, and then said to Brady, "A nice name. Well, Brady, it's imperative we remove the robots from your team. They follow 'The Board.' I do not. That's why we're here," said Ma, trying to ignore the fact that a mutual attraction was developing between her and this beaver (seemingly, anyway). Trying to stay level. "But I thought it best to let you know ... "

"Well, uh ... thank you." A pause. Not really knowing what else to say. Other than, "We'll lose some good players. I mean ... depending on who the robots are."

"You won without robots last year," Ma said.

"True." A pause, and a bewildered frown. "Or ... did I? How can I be sure?" A huff. "How can one be sure of anything in this place!"

"One can't. Sheridan, like life, is for the bold."

"Since the players don't know yet," Spitznagle said, "that I'm quitting, I'm gonna go out there ... and, during practice, disable them. They have a pressure point behind their ears."

"If you disable one, won't the others catch on? And attack?" the Coach asked, taking a backward glance at his team. The assistance coaches (two of them) had it all under control. Running drills in his absence. Starting on a scrimmage.

"I'll be on the sidelines. If any of them make a run for it, or make a violent move ... I'll stop them."

"So, I'm going, okay?" Spitnagle said, getting up, but ...

... a paw grabbed her wrist. Ma holding on. Looking deadly serious. Saying, "I'm a practiced observer."

The raccoon yanked her arm back, breaking the grasp, and rubbing her wrist, frowning.

"Just remember that."

"Don't worry," the racoon mumbled. "I will." Any lingering thoughts of trying anything funny were now out of her mind. She couldn't afford to fight Evelyn, Stone, AND Ma ... no, she needed to be back on a level playing field. She needed to do as the panther said.

While the raccoon jogged out onto the practice field, her grey-black ring-tail trailing behind her, buffeted by the breeze ...

... Ma sat. And Brady stood.

Neither said anything for a moment.

Until the beaver, scuffing the ground with a foot-paw, shrugged a bit, saying, "I don't mind ... "

Ma looked up, brow raised.

" ... that you're a robot."

The panther swallowed.

"Just makes you more interesting."

Ma had to smile just a tiny bit at that. "I'm sure it doesn't."

"I'd sure like to find out," was the beaver's blurted, honest response. Not really planned. Just ... saying it. And he flushed beneath his cheeks. "I mean, you're ... you know ... "

Ma fidgeted.

"I'm, uh ... I'll go," said Brady, turning. "Got practice, and ... "

" ... I could use some coaching."

The beaver stopped. Biting his lip with his buck-teeth, and ... looking to her with brown eyes. His fur a rich-brown, and made for repelling the water. He was stocky, but ... he was a beaver. Was probably his natural build. Was there such a thing as a trim, tall beaver?

"I could," she whispered. "If you'd ... "

"In what?"

"Affection," was Ma's response. A bit hesitant to say it. (To speak of such things! She'd never done.) She recalled all the times she'd witnessed Field and Adelaide ... being love-furs. The glances, and the whispered words, and the ... giggles, and ... that kind of comfort, that kind of ease ... took practice. Months of it. Maybe even years. It wasn't something she'd be able to achieve over night. And though the thought of fledgling love (with anyone) was terrifying and awkward, it was ... enough to go on. Enough of a seed to grow on. "Affection," she repeated. "Love. Things."

"I'm a football coach," he whispered, swallowing.

"I'm a robot," was her reply.

And, after a second, he smiled, and ... chuckled a bit. "I guess so."

"It's simply something we could try. I'm sure we could ... figure out how it works."

"Love, you mean?"

"Well ... yes," was her whisper. Her black fur very velvety-looking in this late-afternoon, chilly light. More crisped leaves were falling, it seemed, than ever before. Rustling as they went. As they tumbled and collected. Simply framing her form. Her whiskers and her nose. Her feline gaze.

The beaver scuffed his foot-paws in the grass again, looking down. "Okay," he said. And nodded. "I mean, I wanted ... want," he said, "to, uh ... well, you. I've wanted you. Ever since I first saw you."

"That was only two days ago, wasn't it?"

"Still ... I mean, that's how things start, isn't it?"

"How?"

"With something. From somewhere. We feel something. You want it to go somewhere, too, other ... otherwise, we wouldn't be talking like this." The beaver, truth be told, felt somewhat a fool. A football coach, on the sidelines, talking about love! If the players overheard, they'd rib at him. But they were young and over-yiffy, and they couldn't appreciate how much deeper love should be.

How tenderness was achieved.

The panther nodded quietly, still sitting (and him still standing), and looking up at him, thought ... how her emotions had done this to her. How love had done this? Had come in, tripped a wire, skipped the bill ... and left a fire in her soul. In her heart, as well.

Had left a need in her.

Had made her to stir.

They both opened their muzzles at the same time, both to speak, and ... both closed them, and deferred to the other. Both tripping over their own thoughts. And dreams, and ...

... Spitznagle was back before they could carry on. The raccoon huffing and gesturing to the field, where six furs, the Mandy-bots, were sprawled on the ground. "Deactivated ... there ya go." She plopped down, panting. "Where's the water?"

"How'd you do it so quickly?" Ma asked, frowning. "How'd you ... "

"Weren't you watching, oh, keen-eyed cat?"

Ma flushed beneath her fur. Which, because her fur was black, wasn't audible. Just registered as the heat she gave off.

"I drugged them all with candy," Spitznagle confided with a chuckle. "Heh ... the other day. Little did I know it would come in handy! They were all so compliant with me that ... they just LET me turn them off!"

Ma shook her head a bit. "Only you, Spitznagle. Only you ... "

"Good candy, though. And good riddance," she added, "to all this ... football business. More trouble than it's worth." She sighed, but seemed a bit wistful. And stood, lingering, "You coming, Ma?"

"Yes," said the panther, standing. They had to meet Field and Adelaide at the Twin Kiss (which was closed for the season, but ... they were going to use it as their rendezvous point, for when both parties had successfully completed their tasks).

"I'll see you later?" was Brady's solid voice.

"Yes," Ma said, swallowing. And she nodded, and she smiled.

And Spitznagle tugged at Ma's paw, and led her away. "Like a kitten to milk ... sappy stuff, Ma. You're gonna lose your legendary status."

"Unlike you, I don't care about status. Or how tough I'm perceived to be."

"What do you care about?" Spitznagle asked, as they went to her car (a VW Jetta).

The panther smiled. A bit coy. Saying, "I would only burn your ears off if I told you."

Meanwhile, beneath the school, in the underground caverns, Adelaide and Field were reaching the basement of the bus barn.

"Hold on, hold on," was the bat's whisper, as she held out a paw. Putting it to Field's belly, and then stepping in front of him (as if a shield). She took a breath, and opened her muzzle, and unleashed a series of chittering, high-pitched, strung-together echo-bursts!

Field's ears swivelled. As the sounds bounced back to him ... as well as to her. But her bat mind was designed to be able to interpret them. Her ears built for it. So, he had to rely on her to ...

... nod, step forward, and indicate the all-clear. The pink-furred bat in the lead.

Field following.

And Field's tail following Field.

Through the rocky bends and torch-lit outcrops. And to the doors of the bus barn, which Adelaide tugged at, huffing, and slouching back, her head turning ...

... Field saw her motion for help. And he helped her. Pry, pry ...

... open!

Light!

And they both blinked fiercely. Not expecting any lights to be on ... and wondering, perhaps, if that meant the presence of other furs. But, as their eyes adjusted, and as their noses ransacked the air, they found they were alone.

Some careless fur had just left the light on, one supposed.

"Well, any worry about finding the thing," Adelaide remarked, nodding at the new-model guard trolley, which was right in the center of things ... " ... bit easy, you know? Just waltzing in here?"

"We've done this before," Field said quietly, whiskers twitching, as his eyes scanned the exterior of the sleeping trolley.

"I know. I guess 'The Board's' just incompetent." A shiver. "Half-expect to be mobbed at any second, or ... thrown into the spider dens."

"Don't talk about spiders!" Field squeaked.

"Calm down," the bat hushed.

"Don't talk about spiders."

"I'm not talking about spiders," she assured. "I'm not. Calm down ... " She reached for his paw. To extend her mental prowess to him with a direct touch. "Calm down," she whispered.

Whiskers twitching, ears swiveling, he looked around. And nodded. And nodded again.

"Okay?"

"Okay," he whispered.

"Now, let's get aboard that trolley and tell it to ... break itself," was the bat's decree, as she stepped up to the door of the trolley.

"There's no handle," said Field.

"Trolley," Adelaide whispered. "Open."

Chirrup! Creak! And the doors slid open, folding in on themselves, and allowing access to the short, gold-framed stairs.

"Probably fake," the bat remarked, referring to the gold.

Field's nose sniffed. "My nose can't tell."

"I don't think noses are good for distinguishing precious metals," she said, giggle-squeaking, and now fully inside the trolley. Her head was safely below the ceiling. As was Field's. "Roomy, these things." And she paused. "All those years of being stalked and hunted and harassed by trolleys ... and this is the first time I've been inside one."

Field felt a chill. "I don't know," he said. "It's ... really creepy. I wanna get out."

"We will. I promise." She slid a paw absently under his shirt, scritching his belly ... while looking around, squinting. "There. The controls are up there." She withdrew her paw, walking a few steps off.

Field followed like a duckling, sticking close to her, his senses all motored. Keeping a lookout.

"Since the door opened by voice, maybe we just speak into these controls ... I don't know. Trolley?"

Chirrup!

The floor-lights came on.

Field swallowed.

"Trolley," Adelaide said quietly. "Erase your memory banks. Self-destruct."

Click-click.

Nothing.

"It doesn't want to," the bat whispered.

"They were always stubborn," Field remarked, eyes wide and innocent. Observing every detail and committing it to memory (in case they should ever need to get inside a guard trolley again ... sometime in the future).

"Trolley, erase memory ... you don't have to blow up, just ... erase memory and ... or make a run for it? Go to the ALCAN ... "

Nothing.

"Please?" Field added.

"You're saying 'please' to the trolley?"

"Well, maybe no one ever does," the mouse reasoned. "Maybe it just needs some ... "

Chirrup! And its systems powered up, and a map came up ... on a little screen.

Adelaide smiled, fangs glinting in the dim light. "Well, alright! Darling, you're awesome." She flashed Field a proud look. "It's complying. It's gonna take the ALCAN."

"That's forever away."

"Which is the point. There's no Sheridan in Alaska."

A nod. "Yeah ... true." A breath. "I should've brought my camera."

"I doubt it would've let you take any pictures. It probably would've neutralized the batteries or something."

The trolley was thrum-humming, and it started to move!

"And, now," Adelaide said quickly, voice rising, "it's time to get off!"

Field nodded, nodded. In total agreement. As he squeaked and ushered his mate to the door, but stopped, saying, "Wait, wait ... it's going outside, into the streets. We should stay on until it does. Better than having to backtrack through the cave system."

"And safer," the bat agreed, nodded, a paw swiping back one of her angular ears. She nodded, taking a breath.

As the trolley took them for a ride.

Ma paced back and forth. Almost stalking. As restless predators were liable to do. Not that Ma was your typical predator. But she paced, her black, snaky panther tail behind her, and ... whipping about.

"Sit down! You're making me dizzy."

"They're not back yet."

"Doesn't mean their mission went wrong," Spitznagle said, eying the menus on the outside wall of the Twin Kiss. "How come they have to close at the end of September? Mm ... onion rings."

Ma gave the raccoon a look.

"Hey, I'm hungry." A shrug.

Ma's angular ears perked, and she padded toward the road (which no cars were driving down). Sheridan town, late on a Monday afternoon, wasn't the busiest. Not right now, anyway. And she squinted, looking down the road.

"It's only a car," said Spiztnagle, coming up behind her.

"Maybe," was Ma's whisper.

And it was, actually. A black Mazda.

Spitznagle turned to sit down, but Ma stayed there, near the white picket fence in front of the ice cream place, and in front of the road, and ... " ... there," she whispered.

"There where?"

"There." A pointed paw.

The raccoon squinted. Eyes wide. "It's Stone and Evelyn ... how ... " She saw the trolley coming, and prepared to bolt, but Ma held her still.

"No!" she exclaimed, giving a toothy grin. "It's them!"

And it was! Field and Adelaide, in the trolley, which coasted to a stop in the middle of the road. The doors folding open, and they hopped off, scurrying out of the way. And the trolley let loose such a sound!

Cling-cling ... CLANG! Ding-a-ding-a-ling ... as it coasted away.

Field shivered. "Wish it wouldn't do that," he said quietly, nestling up to his mate.

"What happened?" Spitznagle asked.

Adelaide explained the whole deal. Saying how the trolley was taking a long, long trip. To the ALCAN. "And it'll stay there, I hope. I mean, why shouldn't it? It'll be free to roam and graze and ... do what trolleys do."

"Maybe it'll even find a femme trolley," Field said brightly, giggle-squeaking. His ears rosy from the air's nip.

"How do you know THAT one was a male?"

"The way it clanged."

Adelaide chittered with mirth, and ... gave the mouse a kiss on the cheek, and sighed, looking around. The autumn was in full grips of this town. But the Conspiracy?

Not so much.

And she said, "Well ... we're gonna go home." Their car was parked here, at the Twin Kiss. "You need a ride, Ma?"

"No," the panther said. "I'm going to walk. I have some things," she said, "on my mind."

"She and Brady, the beaver ... they're glued at the hip now," Spitznagle teased.

"We haven't even kissed yet. Much less had a date."

"Well ... "

"Congratulations, Ma," Adelaide said, pink eyes sparking. "I knew it'd happen for you."

The panther flushed. And just nodded.

And the mouse and bat left with a 'see you later' from the bat, and a tail-wave from the mouse. And a squeak, to boot.

"So, I guess ... everything's even again. Evelyn and Stone don't have their trolley anymore, and ... I'm not on the team, so they've no reason to gun for me."

"You'll still have to put up with them. I'm sure they'll nag you ten times worse than before."

"I can take nagging." The raccoon was quiet for a moment. "Anyway, I guess ... I kind of owe you one."

"You kind of do," Ma agreed.

"You're SUPPOSED to say 'forget about it, Spitznagle ... don't mention it' ... "

A toothy, predatory grin. "Am I?"

"Mm. Well ... whatever. I'm going home, too. See you around, Ma."

The panther nodded, and ... lingered a bit, and then walked off toward her house.

When she got there, she opened the door, slipped in, and ... sat down, and just stared at the table. And then slowly smiled. And, standing, raised her arms and paws, tugging off her shirt (in preparation for a shower), and ...

... knock-knock!

What now!

She hurriedly put her shirt back on, swallowing, and ...

" ... hello, Ma."

"Brady." Was in the doorway.

"Well, uh ... yes," said the beaver.

Ma, paw still on the door-knob, asked, "What are you doing here?" A tone of wonder.

"Well, practice is over, and I ... live on the other side of town. Took a side-street, and ... well, I knew you lived here."

"Oh."

"Thought maybe ... we could chat? Sit for a bit?"

"Sit?"

"If you want. We don't have to sit. Or chat, for that matter. We can ... "

" ... come in," was Ma's invite, stepping back. Gently. Eyes on him.

And a nervous but happy smile crept across the beaver's toothy, brown, blunted muzzle. "Alright. Thanks," he said.

Ma had let down her guard. Opened the door. Let him in.

She was going to chart her heart (and his, too ... twice the heart-ness!) ... and she leaned closer to him, whispering, "You're welcome."

They both hesitated.

But, he, being the male, figured he should move first. So, he leaned a few inches more, and ... pecked the kiss on her lips. Pulling back.

She swallowed, closed her eyes, and opened them. They showed a brightness she'd never felt before.

And that fire in her heart was setting off all kinds of alarms. For the rational. The safe. The cynical. The sane.

But she ignored them all. And kissed him back.