“You’re crying,” he whispered. “You’re . . . s-still a . . . bird,” I stuttered. His smile grew, creasing his cheeks. His joy confused me. “You’re speaking,” he marveled. “You’re still a bird,” I repeated, undeterred. His eyes clung to my mouth, his thumb tracing the swell of my lower lip. “I am,” he whispered, nodding. My eyebrows lowered in confusion, and my lips pursed in question, inviting a kiss. Tiras took it, raising my face and ducking his head, kissing me with all the impatience of long separation and the devotion of long suffering.
