"Letting things happen. Letting people in. I have a pattern. I did it before, and it—" I stopped. Theo's face flickered at the edge of my vision. "It ended badly. I ended it badly."
"What happened?"
"I held on so tight to the idea that it would fall apart that I made it fall apart." I'd never said the truth out loud in so few words.
Pickle was quiet for a moment. Processing.
"Is that what you're doing now? Expecting this to fall apart?"
I looked at him. The dashboard light caught the edge of his cheekbone and the curve of his mouth. He simply sat there, asking a question that deserved an honest answer.
"I'm trying not to," I said.
"How's that going?"
"Badly." I almost smiled. "You make it hard to keep my distance."
"Is that a complaint?"
"No. It's not a complaint."
"Okay," he said. "Okay."
And then he leaned in.
He moved so slowly, I could have stopped him. I could have turned my head and said, "Wait," or any of the sensible things that were supposed to be my specialty. I had time to think about potential consequences and all the reasons this was a terrible idea.
I didn't stop him.
His lips found mine.
The kiss was tentative at first—careful, questioning. He tasted like cheap beer and autumn chill. His lips were slightly chapped. I felt him hesitate, giving me room to pull away.
I didn't take the offer.
I reached up for the back of his neck. His skin was cold from the walk to the car, the fine hairs at his nape soft under my fingers. I pulled him closer, and he made a sound against my mouth. Not quite a gasp. More like relief.
The kiss deepened. His fingers curled into the fabric near my collar, and he shifted in his seat, trying to get closer despite the center console between us. The gear shift pressed into my thigh. I didn't care.
Pickle kissed like he did everything else—with his whole self, no filter and no holding back. His free hand landed on my chest, palm flat, and I wondered whether he could feel my heart slamming against my ribs.
I tugged him closer. He came willingly, half-climbing across the console, one knee bracing against my seat. The angle was awkward. His mouth opened under mine, and I tasted him properly. My hand slid from his neck into his hair, fingers tightening and tugging his head back.
He gasped, a sharp intake of breath that I felt more than heard.
"Sorry," I managed against his lips. "Too much?"
"No." His voice was wrecked. "No, do that again."
I did. Tightened my grip, tilted his head back, kissed him deeper, and then pressed my lips against his throat. He shuddered and pushed closer, gripping my jacket hard.
His knee slipped, and he fell forward, half into my lap, and we both laughed—breathless, surprised—without breaking apart. I caught him with my free hand and steadied him with a grip on his hip.
"Gear shift," he mumbled against my mouth. "Gear shift is in a stupid place."
"Rental car."
"Complain to them."
