She stares at me for a long moment, and I watch her work through it, watch her consider the possibility that she's not failing, that the situation itself is just broken.
"There's probably an app for this," I continue, my tone shifting to something lighter. "Some kind of wedding planner app where you can populate a fake guest list. Make it seem like people actually want to be there."
She laughs. And it does something to my chest that I'm not going to think about too carefully.
"You're so bad," she says, shaking her head.
"I'm serious," I protest, but I'm smiling. "There's an app for everything these days. Dating apps. Fitness apps. Why not an app for fraudulent guest lists?"
"Because it's unethical and probably illegal," she says, but she's still smiling, and I would do illegal things just to keep her smiling like that.
She settles deeper into the couch, and the distance between us shortens. I don't move toward her, but I'm very aware of her,of how close she is, of how much effort it's taking to keep my hands to myself. My fingers drum against my thigh, restless and eager for something to do that isn't touching her.
"Thank you," she says after a while.
"For what?"
"For this," she gestures vaguely around us. "For distracting me. For making me laugh. For not treating me like I'm failing."
"You're not failing," I say. "You're dealing with an impossible situation. That's different."
She turns her head to look at me, and we're close now. Close enough that I can see the exact shade of her eyes in the soft light coming through the windows. I grip the couch cushion between us so hard that my knuckles go white.
"Cassian," she says, and my name on her lips sounds like both a warning and an invitation.
"I know," I say. My voice comes out rough. "We shouldn't."
“Ben—” she starts.
"Isn't here," I finish. I'm looking at her mouth now, at the way her lips curve slightly, and I'm thinking about how she tastes, which I shouldn't be thinking about. My free hand, the one not gripping the couch like it's the only thing keeping me tethered, clenches into a fist in my lap. "And for the record, this isn't about Ben."
"What's it about?" she asks, and there's vulnerability in the question.
"It's about the fact that I can't stop thinking about you," I say. The words come out rough and honest. “And I'm trying really fucking hard to keep my hands to myself, and it's not working."
She swallows hard. "We can't—"
"I know," I say again. I do know. I know all the reasons why this is a bad idea. I also know that I'm running out of reasons to care. "But I want to. And I think you want to."
"That doesn't make it a good idea," she says, but she's leaning forward slightly.
"No," I agree. "It doesn't."
I reach out and touch her cheek with the back of my fingers. Her skin is soft and warm, and the touch sends electricity through my whole body. She doesn't pull away. Instead, she leans into it, her eyes half-closing like she's been waiting for this.
"Sharon," I say, needing her to understand that this is a choice, needing her permission in a way that I usually don't care about.
"Okay," she whispers.
She crashes into me, mouth demanding. After a week of restraint, her kiss ignites something feral. I freeze, shocked by the taste that floods my senses. My hands seize her face, thumbs digging into the hollows beneath her cheekbones. She moans against my mouth, fists clenching my shirt so hard I feel the fabric strain.
Her tongue claims mine, insistent, devouring. The sound tearing from her throat shoots straight through me, molten and urgent, stealing my breath. Her hands claw upward from my chest to my shoulders, nails marking territory.
She moves suddenly, knee scraping across the couch until she's grinding against my thigh. I drag my fingers down her spine, counting vertebrae like a man counting his last moments of sanity. I want to rip the sweater from her body, expose the freckles scattered across her skin like targets.
Her mouth attacks my jaw, each bite a brand. I'm burning alive, hips bucking beneath her weight.
"Cassian," she says, and it's both a plea and a protest.
