Iman guides her hands to her waist - the touch of her metal fingers is less hard than Greta would have expected, less cold - and for a befuddled moment she thinks the lesson is continuing, that this is going to turn into some kind of ninja throw or something. Ridiculous.

Then Iman's hand curls around the back of her neck, and Greta's breath hitches. Oh. There's no mistaking her intent, not anymore, and an incredulous part of her echoes, seriously? just before Iman's lips meet her own.

Apparently, yes.

She's never been kissed by a superhero before.

And then Iman pulls back a little, and Greta makes some sort of noise, an aborted half-syllable of surprise and objection. Why did she kiss her? Why did she stop? Greta didn't even get a chance to kiss her back, and that's just--just not fair.

But Iman's not going anywhere. She's just standing there, waiting, watching her reaction. Presuming nothing. Greta could push her away, just once, gently, and that would be the end of it. Why does that mean so much?

She shivers, and her hands forget their inertia and slide down to Iman's hips, pulling her closer. There's so little space between them, anyway; she scarcely has to dip her head for her lips to find Iman's again. It's so easy, and she can't suppress a faint hum of satisfaction, as if sampling a dessert-in-progress and finding it perfect.