She did everything in twos.
There were always two warnings to get his damned work done before she pulled out the big guns, as it were. Three was society's custom, but two was hers.
There were always two letters sent home, one to her mother, one to her brother; they were mailed simultaneously in different envelopes, twice a year.
She always checked her ammunition twice. Her shots were always grouped in pairs: one-two to the chest, one-two to the head, and back; one-two to the shoulder, pause to estimate the enemy's capabilities, one-two once more. And before she moved on, she always checked the pulse at both the throat and wrist, regardless of what blood might stain her hands.
There were two tugs to her skirt before she asked him if he were ready; two rearrangements of her silverware; two menus; two courses; two careful sips before she nodded approval of the wine; two false starts before she began to speak.
So it wasn't really fair of him: when he initiated the first kiss, when he leaned in to taste everything of her, to breathe in her scent, before pulling away and muttering of propriety, he knew she would have to complete the second.