Most of the time, a kiss was just a kiss. Loki saw it as a momentary collision, sometimes no different than a punch - the work of a moment, sometimes lingering but soon more or less forgotten. He could share it with someone who he cared little for, or not at all. Yet this was Sif; he had loved her once, and he still did care for her, in his way. Kissing her was something he had dreamed about and, disregarding his feelings for her just then, didn't he owe it to himself to kiss her now?

And it was easier to think like that than consider the alternative, which was that the pounding of his heart was not simply another boom of the fireworks. He slid one hand around to the small of her back, her body warm and firm and unyielding underneath the flimsy fabric of her dress. He tasted the sparkling wine on her lips, bitter, but strangely more pleasant on her than it had been on the mouth of the bottle.