I turned another page in my notebook. My pen tapped twice.
“There is one more thing,” I said.
Jason’s shoulders lifted. “I do not like that pause.”
“She will expect us to kiss.”
My voice stayed calm. My face betrayed me. Heat climbed my cheeks like it had plans.
“Of course she will,” he said.
His jaw tightened.
Silence filled the booth. The diner hummed. The sugar dispenser stared back at him.
“We should practice,” I said.
He looked at me. “You want to practice kissing.”
“For realism,” I said. “For your aunt.”
We stared at each other.
“It is not like we have never done it,” I said.
He slid out of the booth and held out his hand. “Okay. Practice. Professional.”
“Professional,” I said, taking his hand.
My fingers felt cool. His felt like he had been holding a coffee pot all day.
The space shrank. The windows threw light across his face. I caught the scent of his soap. Clean. Familiar. Unhelpful.
“Simple kiss,” I said. “Nothing dramatic.”
“Agreed.”
He leaned in and waited. I stayed.
Our lips met. Careful. Measured. A checkbox kiss.
The box refused to stay checked.
His hand found my waist. Mine gripped his shirt. Breath caught. The years we spent pretending we were fine collapsed into a second.
We pulled apart at the same time.
“Well,” I said.
He took a step back. “That was.”
“Unnecessary,” I said. “We do not need to repeat that.”
“No.”
We stayed where we were.
I reached for my notebook and hit the salt shaker instead. It rolled and knocked the table. I ignored it.
