Qebhet was not given to acts of impulse. Circumspection was always her way: she took care with what she said and where she set her feet. And Much was a friend, kind, funny, and she had lived long enough to know that good friends were harder to come by than good lovers, even if it did feel just right swaying together under the dim amber glow of a street lamp. Wait, said instinct. Go slow. You don't want to make things messy. You don't want to turn it awkward.
But there was nothing awkward about the way Much's mouth met hers or the soft pressure of his hands against her back, warm through the thin fabric of her dress. His kiss was gentle, a caress, an invitation, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world to part her lips for him.