We sit for several moments just listening to the noises of the night, the sweat drying on my skin as I breathe in her scent again and lift my eyes to her. “Juniper,” I grin, my eyes half-mast from exhaustion. “You are aware, Trésor, that gin is made of juniper berries, right?” “Don’t flatter yourself, Frenchman, that’s pure coincidence. I’ve been wearing it since I was sixteen.” “It’s not a coincidence.” I run my hand down her wings, her eyes hooding a little more with each caress. “Nothing about us is a coincidence. You should know that by now. Life may have a fucked-up sense of humor for
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