He shakes his head slowly. “How?”
I stare at my hands, digging my thumbnail into my palm until it stings.
Because I’ve never been the girl someone wanted to kiss. That’s how. Because no one’s ever looked at me that way.
I let out a breath, lifting my shoulder in a shrug. “I don’t know. Just… happened. Or didn’t, I should say.”
I glance up and I can see it on his face—the guilt, the surprise, the way he’s putting it all together.
And I hate it.
I hate the way he’s looking at me now, like I’m some kind of delicate thing he accidentally dropped.
Like he regrets all of it.
He rubs both hands over his face, dragging them down slowly. “Fuck. Maisie, I’m so fucking sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I repeat, swallowing the rock lodged in my throat.
“No, it’s not,” he says sharply, dropping his hands. “If you’ve been holding out this long, it’s because it meant something to you. Because you pictured it going a certain way. Or with someone else. Someone better. And I just—” He breaks off, jaw clenched. “I’m such a fucking idiot.”
“Don’t say that,” I murmur, and before I can second-guess it, I reach out and place my hand over his.
His skin is warm. Calloused. Solid beneath mine. He stills, like I’ve startled him, like maybe he wasn’t expecting me to touch him at all.
His fingers tense beneath mine, but he doesn’t pull away. Neither do I.
I don’t even breathe. My pulse stutters, and I’m so aware of him—his hand under mine, his scent, the tiny space between us that suddenly feels too small and too big all at once.
His eyes meet mine, dark and warm and swimming with guilt. They’re so pretty and so soft it almost hurts to look at him.
He blinks once. Then again, his tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip. My eyes catch the motion like a hook, holding there for a beat too long.
Then his gaze drops to my mouth.
“How did you picture it?” he asks.
I blink. “What?”
“Your first kiss,” he says, his eyes lifting to mine. “How did you picture it?”
My stomach twists. I wasn’t expecting him to ask that, or to care.
I shift a little on the bed, the blanket tugging under my legs, and I let out a small breath. “I don’t know,” I say, even though I do. Of course I do. I’ve thought about it more times than I care to admit. “I guess… maybe after a date. He’d walk me home. It would be quiet. Sweet. He’d ask first. I’d say yes. Maybe my foot would pop a little.”
A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Your foot would pop?”
My brows tug together, feeling the heat creep onto my face. “It’s a thing.”
He chuckles, and I hate that it makes my heart ache. Because I want to keep hearing that sound.
The flush on my face deepens and I glance down at our hands again.
“You know what? Never mind,” I mutter, pulling my hand back slowly. “It’s stupid. It doesn’t matter anymore.”
He runs a hand through his hair again, his laugh fading. His gaze drops to my mouth again, longer this time. A muscle in his jaw ticks. I watch the way he swallows, like he’s holding something back.
“Let me make it right.”
