Their first kiss wasn't supposed to be like that. It was supposed to be sweet, and tender, and romantic. The kind of kiss you would see in a play, and not one that premiered by the docks to bawdy laughter and and a watchful provost. It was supposed to be perfect. Certainly not clumsy, and tasting of whiskey. He said as much when he pulled back, dropping his forehead against her shoulder as his head swam with drink, or shame—maybe both.
She rubbed his back, hushing him, "there's always tomorrow."