Her blush deepens, and I can't resist brushing my thumb against her cheek again. "You didn't just steal my first kiss that night, babe. You stole my heart too."
"Zach..." she whispers, voice small and wobbly.
I grin, voice low and teasing again. "That kiss might've been short, but damn, it ruined me for everyone else."
For a moment, neither of us says anything.
The music's still blasting, people still moving all around us — laughter, bass, the shuffle of feet — but for me, it's like someone hit mute.
All I can hear is her breathing. Soft. Uneven. Brushing against my skin.
Her eyes dart between mine and my mouth, and it's like the air thickens, humming with everything we're not saying.
I swallow hard, thumb still tracing the curve of her jaw. "Can I..." My voice trails off for a beat, and I let out a small breath, softer now. "Can I kiss you?"
For a beat, she just stares at me — wide eyes, lips parted — then the faintest ghost of a smile curls on her mouth. And that's all it takes.
The tiniest nod.
No hesitation. I close the distance.
The moment our lips brush, the world detonates into static. It's soft — barely a kiss, really — but it feels like striking a match in a room full of oxygen. My pulse stutters, heart slamming so hard I swear it's trying to break free from my chest.
Every nerve in my body lights up, sparking like fireworks under my skin.
It's a chaste kiss, but it feels anything but innocent — a slow burn that starts in my gut and spreads like wildfire, dangerous and addicting.
When I pull back, barely an inch, we're still caught there — breathing the same air, her breath shallow and shaky against my mouth. My forehead presses to hers, both of us trembling just enough to feel it.
Her lashes flutter, eyes glassy, and I can feel the ghost of her lips still burning on mine.
And fuck, I want more. So much more.
Every instinct in me is screaming to close the gap again — to taste her, to drown in this — but I stay still. Just watching her,memorizing her, burning the moment into memory before I lose it.
I'm about to say something—God knows what—when she moves.
Slow. Dazed. Like she's caught between thought and instinct.
Her arms slide up, looping around my neck, and before my brain can catch up, she's pulling me down to her. Her eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown wide, and then her mouth finds mine.
This kiss isn't soft. It's fire meeting gasoline.
Her mouth moves against mine with a kind of desperate rhythm that rips the air right out of my lungs. Her lips are warm and sweet, tasting faintly like berries and adrenaline and every dream I've ever had about her.
My hands find her waist, fingers pressing into the soft fabric of her top as I drag her closer—closer—until she's flush against me. Her heartbeat drums wild against my chest, syncing with mine in this feverish, reckless beat that feels more like a confession than any words we've ever said.
Her breath mingles with mine, uneven and fast. The world is noise and color somewhere far away, but right here—right now—it's just this: her lips moving with mine, her fingers threading through my hair, the faint taste of sweetness and sin that makes me dizzy.
It's wild and messy and perfect.
I don't even know where she ends and I begin.
All I know is that she's real, she's here, and kissing her feels like resurrection—like I've been underwater for years and finally broke the surface, lungs burning, desperate for air.
When she finally pulls back, her lips are swollen, her eyes dazed, and I swear my heart forgets how to beat altogether.
For a second, I just stand there—completely wrecked.
