"Okay," she says softly, and she curls her fingers around his, knowing -- without having to look -- that her hand is dwarfed by his. "Khoroshiy."

It will take effort to untangle their hands. She likes that. His hand is solid, warm; work-roughened but gentle, a steady weight over hers. She likes that, too.

Her left hand moves, sliding carefully to cup his jaw. She leans up and presses her lips to his again, slower this time; taking her time. It isn't for any particular reason, other than: she can, and she's happy, and she wants to.

They're a little intoxicating, those three reasons. Maya doesn't mind.