It’s unnerving to be seen so clearly, even in the dark. No one ever pays this much attention to me, and it’s quietly devastating.
My throat tightens, but I don’t look away.
“And what do you know about costs?” I ask.
“I learned what it costs not to help.”
The first bell tolls, the sound low and old. It rolls through us—through me. It feels like it’s counting something down insideme.
I think of all the times I’ve chosen distance. Safety. Control.
I think about how grief taught me to ration joy like it might run out.
I’m tired of rationing.
I’m tired of feeling so alone it aches.
Another bell tolls.
I slide my hand into the front of his coat, fingers curling hard into the fabric of his shirt. Before I can convince myself otherwise, I rise up on my toes, lips beside his ear.
“I’m not here for promises,” I murmur. “Just a moment where the cost doesn’t matter.”
His breath slightly stutters, like he’s not used to a woman being so forward.
His voice comes out rough when he finally responds. “Happy to help.”
Toll number three, I think? But it doesn’t matter.
Our mouths collide in a way I can only describe as inevitable.
The kiss lands hot and decisive.
His mouth opens under mine immediately, as though we’ve already learned this rhythm together. His left hand cradles my face, thumb pressing at the hinge of my jaw as he deepens the kiss with slow, unapologetic certainty.
I think the bell tolls another time or two, but it’s fuzzy.
First kisses never feel like this. Like the air around us has warmed several degrees, like every press of our lips matters, like he’s as desperate to feel as I am.
My grip tightens on his shirt. His hand slides to my waist, fingers splayed like he’s anchoring me, like he knows I haven’t felt alive in years. The dark hums around us, or maybe it’s the magic.
None of that matters right now.
“This is reckless,” he murmurs, his voice rough.
“Yes,” I say—and kiss him again, because I crave reckless. And maybe even a connection.
The bell finishes its toll.
Fireworks explode somewhere in the distance, signaling our time is over. I’m surprised to find I’m disappointed. When we separate, my pulse thrums with a new rhythm. One that says I’m a changed woman, who’s done living life on the sidelines.
Or one who’d like to be.
His forehead rests briefly against mine, his breath uneven.
The moment is taut with everything we’re not saying. Even if I could form words, I don’t know what I’d say.
Telling someone that was the single best kiss of my life feels like it might be too much, especially when I don’t even know his name.
