There are times when she wakes up with the tang of citrus, sweet and tart, on her tongue, and the taste floods her mind with water and sugar and lemons and memories.

Flirtation (Coy. Awkward) on the porch in the hazy heat of summer, the clink of ice, slow and dense against frosted glass; the languid brush of lips in her bedroom, the lick of lemons at her mouth: Sour.  Seductive.

When Logan wraps a careful arm around her shaking shoulders and asks her why she's crying, her tears taste like acid, and she doesn't know how to answer him.