He continues to stand in front of me, and I wait for him to do something. Maybe kiss me? He doesn’t, though, and it feels intentional. Like he’s giving me time to run if I want to.
Which I don’t.
The air between us crackles like a struck match.
“You wore the hoodie.” His eyes drop, and they turn dark and satisfied.
“It’s your hoodie,” I remind him, twisting the fabric between my fingers.
He smirks, low and hungry. “It’s better on you.”
I roll my eyes even though heat curls low in my stomach. “Talk about a line.”
“Line?” he asks, closing the space until I can feel the warmth of his breath. “Then why do you keep coming back if I’m only giving you lines?”
I reach for his collar, fist it, and tug him toward me until our chests almost brush. “Because you leave notes in my books.”
“So this is your kink? Stationery or does it have to be in a book?” he teases, grin crooked and sinful.
“Don’t make it weird,” I warn, tightening my grip on his shirt.
“Oh, Little Bird,” he breathes against my mouth, “it was always weird.”
And then he kisses me. It’s soft at first, but not for long.
His hands slide to my waist, fingers digging into the fabric. My fingers thread into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan.
We press together like we’re trying to escape our own skins.
Like there’s no world outside this old wooden shack.
He groans against my mouth when I tug his hair harder. The sound shoots straight through me.
And I feel it. All of it. The ache. The want. The overwhelming relief of finally having something that feels like mine.
After a few more moments, we pull apart—barely.
His forehead rests against mine. His breath is hot. His chest rises hard and fast against mine.
“Jesus.” He brushes his thumb against my lip. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“You like it,” I whisper, nudging my nose against his.
“That’s not the point,” he breathes, his eyes dropping to my mouth again like he’s fighting himself.
“Then what is?” I ask, fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer and begging to be kissed again.
He hesitates long enough to make my pulse trip, and then his voice drops, raw and unguarded.
“No one’s ever wanted me like this before. Sure, I’ve had girls, but this—this is different.”
The words hit me like a punch, and all the air leaves my lungs. I pull back just enough to look at him. Really look at him.
His eyes are serious. Dark. A little afraid. And I realize he means it.
Not just physically. Not in the shallow, temporary way people want something pretty or dangerous.
He means no one’s ever chosen him. No one ever thought he was worth sneaking out for. Worth breaking rules for. Worth fighting for.
