Qebhet was aware of her palms still resting on Much's shoulders, and she was suddenly, itchingly uncertain of what to do with them. Much didn't seem bothered by it, only softly concerned. His kiss had been heady with desire, but there was nothing demanding about the slow, soothing brush of his thumbs against her arms, and his eyes had lost none of their warmth.
Maybe he was right. Maybe she hadn't ruined it. All it would take was for her to close the space that she'd created between them and kiss him again. She was overthinking everything, creating dilemmas where there needn't be any at all. Much was attractive and kind and he made her smile; what could be the hurt in taking him home?
(That he'd feel differently tomorrow, that he'd decide it was a mistake, that he wouldn't joke and smile as easily anymore, that she'd suffocate this new friendship when she had so precious few to waste—)
Qebhet made a small, rueful sound in her throat, too weak to be called a real laugh. He was being so lovely. And he was an incredible kisser.
She didn't mean to blurt that out loud. In the moment after the words left her mouth, realisation made her cheeks burn hotter and she ducked her head in embarrassment.