Friedrich Bhaer was most certain he was deluding himself.
A moment ago, he had been cold, wet, and decidedly alone in the world—and now he was still cold, still wet, but ach! Who cared for such things? Jo, his Jo, his lovely, good, brown, perfect Jo, was kissing him, cradling his cheek with one thin brown hand as her arms wound round his neck, with clearly no intention of letting him go.
He murmured foolishness against her mouth, a string of mixed English and German endearments, and with his thumb traced the edge of her cheekbone.
She pulled back from him and smiled up at him, her hands resting on his heart, which was slamming within him.
His answering smile was, he feared, perhaps something of the fool.
"You're soaked," breathed his Jo, tracing the water that was trickling down his temple with her finger. He shrugged. Such things were inconsequential.
"You are lovely."
She seemed torn between a laugh and a blush, and so settled for both. On her, it was—it was—becoming.
"Romantic," she said, but he knew that it pleased her. He chuckled; she spoke truly. Of late he had been quite the romantic, a ridiculous occupation for a man of 40.
And yet…
"Only recently, Professorin," he told her, and without a word stooped to kiss his Jo once more, merely because he could.
Some time later, he was walking home, without his umbrella—what gentleman would not give it to a lady in need?—and not minding the stares of passerby who hadn't been fortunate enough to find love. Bah! What they thought meant little.
She, his Jo, had agreed to be his own, to haff and to hold—he felt himself flush beneath his beard—to love and to cherish, till death parted them. She had not minded, not minded at all his age, his poverty, his empty hands…
Not empty anymore.
A young man in a hurry splashed him with mud as he ran by; he waved off his profuse apologies.
"Prut, it matters little. The suit was brown anyway. Go home to thy family."
And he walked off wet, dirty, and smiling because some time in the near future, he would marry a woman with the hot temper and much hair, a woman with sharp grey eyes and an odd, dear mouth…
In the near future, he would marry his Jo, and against that rain and muck were no contenders.