---
They let their hands wander with care. Sera's fingers traced the long lines of his shoulders and arms and the shape of his back where muscle told the truth about what work he'd done and what work he was ready to do.
John's hands followed the arch of her waist and the subtle strength of her hips through fabric, memorizing boundaries and asking permission at each border. She answered with small shifts closer, with the way her knees pressed gently against his sides, with the way her hand slid up into his hair and held his head for a deeper kiss.
He broke that one only because breath asked politely. They rested foreheads together, noses brushing, sipping air from the same small space.
"I thought about you in temple work," she confessed, voice low, mouth curved. "It is difficult to meditate when your mind insists on returning to the memory of a boy who tastes like stolen cinnamon."
