She asked to stop, so they did. Jean-Francois didn’t understand it, but he did.
“We are in the middle of a thunderstorm and you want to stop and feel the rain?” he asked.
“You don’t like it you can wait inside,” she snapped back at him as she wandered out of their shelter in a crumbling stone bunker. She wandered into the rain and let it turn her fiery curls deep auburn and limp against her cheeks.
“What do you like about the rain?” he asked as he went out to join her.
“I used to like it back home because everything got so quiet,” she admitted softly. “I haven’t been out in it since I left.”
“Rain is nothing special here,” said Jean-Francois. Then he saw a drop run down her forehead and over her lips. “Kiss me.”
She turned to him, but didn’t ask, didn’t agree or say no. She just stared, daring him to ask her again.
“Kiss me,” he repeated, a little stronger than before.
So she did. She got up on her toes, leaned forward - a little shyly - and pressed her lips to his. He wrapped his arms around her and it was almost like he could forget their circumstance–forget they weren’t just a man and a woman, trying not to fall in love. He could almost pretend he didn’t love her already.
She stepped back, and told him they should go back inside. So they did.