For a moment, that’s enough.
Then I tilt my head up.
Not rushing. Not asking with words. Just lifting my gaze, closing the distance a fraction at a time until my mouth is a breath from his. I stop there, suspended, letting the moment stretch – giving him the chance to pull away if he’s going to.
He doesn’t.
His hand slides from my nape to my jaw, thumb brushing slowly along my cheek, deliberate, almost reverent. When he kisses me, it’s unhurried – his mouth firm but careful, like he’s measuring the impact as much as I am. There’s no rush, no claiming. Just the steady press of his lips against mine, warm and grounding, the contact held long enough for my breath to hitch before it settles again.
I make a soft sound before I can stop myself and lean into him fully, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like letting go would undo the moment.
The kiss deepens, not in urgency but in certainty. A subtle shift. A longer press. His thumb tilts my chin just enough to keep me there, attentive, present. He tastes like coffee and something darker underneath – familiar in a way that makes my chest ache.
It’s not desperate. It’s not about forgetting.
It’s about anchoring – about confirming that this is real, that we’re still allowed to touch each other gently after everything else has been sharp.
When he breaks the kiss, it’s slow, controlled, his forehead resting against mine again as our breaths tangle in the narrow space between us.
“Still okay?” he asks quietly.
“Yes,” I say immediately. “More than okay.”
Something pleased and dangerous flickers in his eyes. He kisses me again – shorter this time, softer – a promise rather than a demand. When he pulls back, his hand lingers at my jaw for a second longer than necessary, thumb brushing once more before he lets go.
I stay close, my hands still fisted lightly in his shirt, like distance would be a mistake.
“I could get used to this,” I murmur.
“Careful,” he says, voice low.
“Why?”
“Because they don’t let monsters like us keep it.”
“It?”
“Peace. Happiness.”
I look up at him. “Then we take it anyway.”
Something sharp and approving flashes in his eyes. “That,” he says, “is my favourite thing about you.”
We don’t push it further. We don’t need to. The kiss has already done its work – settled something restless inside me, grounded me in the present instead of the threat horizon.
Later, we sit side by side on the bed, shoulders touching, reading different things, silence stretching without snapping.
This is the lie, I realise.
Not that we’re safe – but that safety looks like warm mouths and steady hands and the choice to stay.
I let myself have it anyway.
Because whatever comes next, I refuse to meet it untouched.
For now, this is mine.
And I keep it.
