For later.
Sierra stands in the center of the room, trembling, her camera hanging loose at her side for once instead of raised like a shield. Her eyes are too bright. Her breath is coming too fast.
She looks terrified.
She looks brave.
She looks like everything I've ever wanted and spent eleven years convincing myself I couldn't have.
Fuck the rules.
Fuck the secrets.
Fuck every single reason we clung to that kept us apart.
I reach her in three strides. My hands find her face—God, herface, wet with tears she's trying to pretend aren't there—and I tilt it up toward mine.
“You're shaking,” I murmur.
“I just told a room full of people I've been in love with you since I was like fourteen.” Her voice cracks. “Of course I'm shaking.”
“Since you were fourteen?”
“Don't make me say it again. I'll combust.”
I smile. It feels like the first real smile I've managed in days. Weeks. Maybe years.
“Sierra.”
“What?”
“I'm going to kiss you now.”
Her breath stutters. “In front of?—”
“Everyone. Yes.”
“My brothers are right there.”
“I know.”
“They might actually murder you.”
“Worth it.”
And then I kiss her.
Not the desperate, hidden kisses we've stolen in dark corners and empty rooms. Not the frantic collision of two people who knew they were running out of time.
This kiss is a claim.
This kiss is a promise.
This kiss is every single thing I've wanted to say poured into the press of my mouth against hers while a room full of witnesses watches us finally stop pretending.
She melts into me. Her fingers curl into the front of my flannel, gripping tight like she's afraid I'll disappear. A small sound escapes her—half sob, half laugh—and I swallow it, pull her closer, let myself drown in the reality of her.
Mine.
