Greta's hum is low and almost dignified, but Iman actually lets out a delighted squeak when she's pulled back in. This has her adrenaline rising much quicker than the initial test; she feels elated and, oddly, relieved. Somewhere at the back of her mind under the slosh of alcohol and false memories she thinks finally, she's been waiting and hoping, and that doesn't make any sense because she just met this woman, how could she feel so satisfied by such an impromptu kiss, how can she possibly know that she's in love with this woman?

The thoughts don't rise quick enough; she moves her hand from the back of Greta's neck to the back of her head, fingers tangling gently into her hair, her other arm shifting down to wrap around her back. Yes, okay, she would like this to continue, please, for the foreseeable future, because Greta smells like flour and tastes like sweet wine and her hands are so nice, and Iman wants this moment to keep happening and to progress. She really, really doesn't want to wake up.

Wake up?

Her hand has slid onto Greta's cheek and she's just caught Greta's lower lip gently between hers when she freezes up completely, memories and explanations rushing back in a disorienting swirl still deadened under psychosomatic drunkenness.

What is - what is this?

She blinks, dazed, and looks at Greta, her expression failing to reached bewildered and so settling for awe.