AN: A tiny bonus from Red's POV.
A kiss is never really just a kiss, no matter what the song may say.
Red learned that a long time ago, when Marnie Petersen pushed him up against a wall and stole his first kiss, his cigar, and his father's old brass Zippo lighter with the patina he loved so much, all in the space of about sixty seconds.
He became well versed in expecting the unexpected after that. His very life depended on his ability to prepare for every possible situation, but not even he could have predicted this.
Lizzy kissed him. She kissed him.
She surprised him.
Again.
He would've thought he was dreaming, but his dreams were rarely this pleasant. The moment her lips touched his, a sweet, twisting tension coiled in his belly. When he responded, she slid her hands around his neck with an eager moan; the hand he had at the small of her back tightened and pulled her closer.
He knew that on some basic level she was attracted to him. Had known, in fact, probably longer than she had. It was simply part of his nature to catalog potentially useful information; the first time he noticed her gaze drifting to his lips as he spoke, he filed it away for future consideration. That it quickly became a habit of hers only served as confirmation.
And she always let him stand so close, much closer than she should have been comfortable with so soon, without a flinch or a reprimand.
Funny, he thought she was in denial, or that she was at the very least repressing her attraction almost as hard as he was repressing his. She told him she cared about him—more than once—but care could mean so many things.
But this? This went above and beyond mere attraction. This was acknowledgement. This was declaration of intent, unable to be misinterpreted. Lizzy would never kiss him just to kiss him. It wasn't her style.
She trailed her lips across his impeccably smooth skin until they brushed against his ear. "Red?"
"Mmm?"
He felt her smile against his cheek before she whispered, "For once in your life, stop thinking."