A test. A bridge. A plea.
I don’t move.
Because I want it.
Because I’ve always wanted it.
Her eyes flick to my lips.
And still, I don’t move.
“I shouldn’t be here,” she says, voice trembling despite her bravery.
“I know.”
“You shouldn’t be looking at me like that.”
“I know.”
Her next breath is even quieter. “And you definitely shouldn’t kiss me.”
My hand lifts on instinct, sliding up her jaw, thumb sweeping across her cheekbone like I’ve been waiting years for permission.
“Then stop looking at me like you want me to.”
She tastes like every moment I never thought I’d survive — like danger wrapped in softness, like freedom laced with fear, like coming home to something I never believed I deserved.
Her fingers tangle in my shirt, holding me like she’s afraid the wind might take me if she loosens her grip. Her breath hitches when I slide my hand into her hair and pull, just enough to make her gasp into my mouth like the sky cracked open above us.
I press my forehead to hers, breaths mingling in the cold.
“You’re killing me,” I whisper.
She smiles — small, secret, devastating.
“Good.”
She kisses me again, and it’s different this time — like she’s memorising the shape of me, tracing the edges she knows will hurt later, stealing whatever pieces she can before I inevitably disappear.
And I let her.
Fuck, I let her.
Because being wanted by her feels like something I’ve been running from and crawling toward all at once.
Her body trembles, just slightly, beneath my hands — not fear, not hesitation, just the weight of wanting something dangerous. Something broken. Someone like me.
So I slow it down.
Ease back just enough to see her face — her messy hair tangled from my fingers, her lips swollen, her chest rising and falling in soft, stuttering breaths.
“You good?” I murmur.
Her lashes flutter.
“Yeah,” she whispers. “Just… didn’t expect you to be soft.”
That hits harder than any bullet ever could.
