Maggie turned her face toward the street, toward the blur of neon overhead. “Go back inside, Gwen. I’m fine.”
“You’re crying.” Gwen’s voice was steady, too steady.
“I said I’m fine.” Maggie shoved a laugh into the words, sharp and hollow. “Just needed some air. Fremont Street heals all wounds, right? I think there’s an Elvis song that says that.”
But Gwen didn’t leave. She moved closer, the scrape of her stupid dress shoes loud against the concrete, until she was right there — so close Maggie could smell the faint thread of her shampoo beneath the cocktail haze.
And then Gwen’s hands were on her face, firm, holding her still.
Maggie startled, tried to pull back, but Gwen’s grip was gentle and unyielding.
“What do you want?” Gwen asked, low, urgent, every syllable vibrating through Maggie’s chest.
Her throat closed. The question was so big, and so, so dangerous. She shook her head, eyes darting away toward the crowd. “I don’t know.”
“Say it.” Gwen’s thumbs brushed against her damp cheeks, her gaze relentless. “Say what you want.”
The air between them thickened, hot and electric, as if the city itself had paused to listen. Maggie’s breath stuttered, her pulse screaming that shedidknow, she always had, but the words tangled, caught in her chest.
And still Gwen held her there, steady and unflinching, until the silence between them felt like it might break them both open.
Maggie’s chest heaved, every nerve firing under Gwen’s touch. Her thumbs still rested against Maggie’s cheeks, warm, steady, holding her in place like Gwen could anchor her through sheer will.
Then Gwen’s voice dropped, low enough that it was almost a growl. “Tell me you want me to kiss you.”
Maggie’s breath hitched.
“Say it out loud.”
Her whole body rebelled, her brain screamingdon’t, her heart poundingplease. She tried to look away, but Gwen’s hands tightened, just enough to keep her there, their foreheads almost touching now. The air between them was hot, charged with too many years of not admitting what she needed.
Maggie’s lips trembled. “I… I want you to kiss me.”
The words came out raw, cracked open, but once they were there, she couldn’t stop. Her eyes flicked helplessly to Gwen’s mouth, the gravity of it pulling her in.
Gwen’s breath caught against her cheek. Her grip softened but didn’t fall away.
“Again,” Gwen whispered. “Say it again so I know you mean it.”
Maggie’s throat burned, tears hot at the corners of hereyes, but she let the words spill anyway. “I want you to kiss me.”
And in that moment —standing in the dark mouth of an alley off Fremont Street, surrounded by laughter and lights and the roar of a city that didn’t care — Maggie had never meant anything more.
Gwen’s face was so close Maggie could feel the warmth of her breath. Her eyes had gone soft but intent, the way she used to look at Maggie when they were young, and everything felt possible.
She leaned in, just enough that their noses brushed, then stopped.
“Are you sure?” Gwen asked, voice rough, almost breaking.
The pause split Maggie wide open, because of course Gwen would ask, even now, when Maggie was already shaking with need. Of course Gwen would give her one last chance to back away, to pretend she hadn’t said the words that had been clawing at her chest for months.
But Maggie didn’t back away. She couldn’t.
Her hand slid up, gripping the front of Gwen’s shirt, tugging her in. She closed the gap herself, pressing her mouth to Gwen’s in a kiss that was messy and desperate, nothing like the polished way Gwen usually moved through the world.
It was salt and tears and months,yearsof wanting, and Gwen’s hands tightening at her jaw like she’d been starving for the taste of her all along.
The noise of Fremont Street roared on around them — signs flashing, strangers laughing, some drunk tourist shoutingViva Las Vegas!— but Maggie didn’t hear any of it.
