I didn’t think. I just moved.
She was still looking at me like she didn’t know whether to run or stay — like I’d just pulled the ground out from under her. And maybe I had. But I couldn’t take it back now. Wouldn’t even if I could.
So I leaned in.
At first, it wasn’t some grand, desperate thing. It was soft. Careful. A promise whispered between heartbeats. My lips brushed hers, and the world went quiet — the kind of quiet that fills every corner of your chest and makes you forget what came before it.
It wasn’t a performance this time. Not some camera-ready kiss for the brand or the headlines. It wasn’t damage control. It wasn’t part of any contract or media scheme.
It was just… us.
Her breath caught. I felt it — the tremor that went through her, the way her fingers twitched like she wanted to reach for me but wasn’t sure she was allowed. I pulled back an inch, just enough to see her eyes. The hesitation was there, but so was something else — something raw and trembling and real.
Then she closed the distance.
This time, she kissed me.
And everything else disappeared.
Her lips were soft but sure, tasting faintly like the hot chocolate she’d forced down, like something warm and familiar. I cupped her jaw, my thumb brushing her cheek, and she leaned into it. The movement wasn’t rushed or messy. It was slow. Intentional. Like we were both afraid that if we went too fast, we’d ruin it.
It deepened — not in the wild, reckless way we’d kissed before, when emotion had been too much to contain, when the world had been watching. This was something quieter, heavier. It was me telling her everything I couldn’t say in words. That I meant what I’d said. That she wasn’t a contract or a storyline. That she was the first thing in my life that made me want to be better — not for the cameras, but for myself.
Her hand found the side of my neck, fingers brushing the short hair there. The touch nearly undid me. Every nerve in my body seemed to light up under her palm.
I broke the kiss first, only because I needed air. She was still close enough that her breath mingled with mine, warm and uneven. I rested my forehead against hers, eyes shut, trying to steady the rush in my chest.
“See?” I murmured. “No cameras. No contracts.”
She let out a soft laugh — the kind that cracked at the edges like she didn’t trust it. Her hand stayed on my jaw, thumb tracing the corner of my mouth like she didn’t quite believe I was real.
“Yeah,” she whispered. “That’s what scares me.”
I opened my eyes and looked at her. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips parted, and in that moment, I knew there was no going back.
Because I’d just kissed her like she was mine.
And she’d kissed me like she finally believed it. Like she meant it—like she was tired of pretending she didn’t want this.
I couldn’t hold back anymore.
The kiss deepened, slow at first, then hungry. My hand slid into her hair, and her fingers tightened around the front of my hoodie, pulling me closer like she needed me the way I needed her.
I lost myself in her — in the way she tasted, in the quiet little sounds she made when I tilted my head and kissed her deeper, slower. I felt her shift on the couch, her knees brushing mine, and when she moved to straddle me, it was over.
I stood, taking her with me, her legs wrapped around my waist. She gasped into my mouth, and I kissed her harder in response.
We made it halfway down the hall before she whispered my name, like it was a question and a plea all at once.
I carried her to the bedroom.
The second I kicked the door shut, she was pulling at my hoodie, and I tugged it over my head in one smooth motion. Her eyes drank me in like she hadn’t expected this—like maybe she thought she’d regret it, but she didn’t.
She didn’t say a word as I leaned down and kissed the edge of her jaw, then her neck. She tilted her head for me, gave me full access, her hands sliding up my chest, over my shoulders. When she touched my skin, I nearly lost it.
My fingers found the hem of her shirt, and I paused.
“Okay?” I asked, voice rough.
