Rosalie forced herself to stop thinking long enough to step closer towards Mr. Greengrass. She still didn't trust herself to speak, didn't think she could verbally agree without some sort of indication of the emotional whirlwind she was trapped within. The mug was soon discarded once more on the table, her free hand now reaching up to cup his cheek. His face was warm against her fingers, his beard sharp in a way she didn't remember feeling with —

She pressed up on her tiptoes, pressing her lips to his.

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