“Your mouth tastes like ash and heartache, Ran,” he says, giving me a long, tight squeeze that snaps my brain back to the bus, to the steaming cup of coffee in front of me, to the light streaming in above the kitchen window. “Don't kiss me with it again until you get that shite cleaned up, okay?” “Okay,” I whisper and then we both pause at the sound of soft footsteps behind us.
