It wasn’t practiced. It wasn’t smooth. It was the kind of kiss that happened when both people were terrified and too far gone to stop. Her fingers found the front of my jacket; mine slid up the back of her neck, holding her there like something sacred. A quiet sound escaped her, half sigh, half surprise, and I swear I felt it down to my bones. I knew right then and there I was hooked. I threaded her soft hair between my fingers, determined to memorize everything about her.
When we finally broke apart, neither of us spoke. Just stared, breathing hard, hearts doing their own drum solo.
“Well,” she whispered, voice shaky but laced with humor. “Guess you’re bad at following your own advice.”
“Yeah,” I managed. “Guess I am.”
She smiled and kissed me again.
This one was slower, surer. The kind that says,we’ll deal with the consequences later.
Then she pulled back, thumb brushing the edge of my jaw. “Don’t make me regret that.”
“Wouldn’t dare.”
She got up, and I let her pull me with her. I wrapped my hands around her waist, pulling her body into mine. Trying to memorize every curve. Then the porch light started flickering frantically. It stopped, and then when neither of us moved, it began to disco the porch. She groaned and stepped away from me. I hated to let her go. She looked back once before opening her door and stepping inside. “Maybe while you’re away, you can read a book on communication. These mixed signals really make a girl’s head spin.”
I grinned at her. “What was mixed about that kiss?”
She rolled her eyes, and when she shut the door behind her, I had to practically drag myself off that porch. I got home, checked on Mom—still asleep, still curled on her side like she was waiting for someone to wake her who never would—and finally stumbled to my room. I dropped onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling, replaying every second of that kiss like my brain was stuck on a loop. Her lips. Her hands in my jacket. I must’ve drifted halfway to sleep, because the knock on the door nearly sent me into cardiac arrest. Three taps. Soft. Hesitant.
I ran a hand over my face, stood, and padded down the hall. The TV flickered on the couch where Mom slept, dust motes drifting through the blue glow. When I cracked the door open Holly stood there. Barefaced. Hair down. Hands shoved into the sleeves of a massive sweatshirt like she was holding herself together by the threads. My heart did something stupid.
“Can I—?” she started, swallowing hard. “Can I come in?”
I stepped aside so fast I nearly tripped. She slipped past me, eyes adjusting to the dim, taking in the mismatched furniture, the sagging couch, my mom asleep two feet away. Embarrassment crawled up my neck. “It’s not—” I started.
But she whispered, “Jackson.” Just my name. Soft. Reassuring. And the shame deflated out of me like a punctured tire. She walked toward the hallway. Slowly. Like she was memorizing everything. The photos. The chipped paint. The scuffed floorboards. And not one hint of judgment touched her face. I followed her, heartbeat doing its best impression of a machine gun. When she reached my doorway, she stopped. Looked inside. My room wasn’t much—cheap sheets, cracked dresser, boots lined up neat along the wall—but her breath caught like it meant something anyway.
We stepped inside and she turned to face me. For a second I forgot how to inhale.
Holly lifted her hands, barely brushing the hem of my T-shirt. “Is this ok?” she whispered.
My voice didn’t work. I nodded. Her fingers slid up, skimming my ribs, my chest, my shoulders. Slow. Deliberate. Testing. Her hand shook once—barely—but I felt it like a lightning strike. God, it killed me. Every instinct in me screamed to reach for her, to pull her in, to deepen this. But I stayed still. Perfectly still. If she wanted distance, she’d get it. If she wanted closeness, she’d take it. If she wanted control, it was hers. She smoothed her palm over my collarbone, tracing muscle like she was learning a new language. “Ok,” she whispered to herself. “Ok. I can do this.”
She wasn’t talking to me. Not really. She was talking to the old ghosts. I felt her touch everywhere. “I’m… not used to wanting to,” she said quietly, eyes fixed on the fabric beneath her hand. “Usually, I want to run. Or freeze. Or…disappear.”
I swallowed hard. “You’re here. That’s what matters.”
Her laugh was shaky, more of a surrender than anything. Still, I didn’t move. Not an inch. Just breathed slow so she could feel the rise and fall under her palm. Her hand slid up my chest, trembling but determined.
“This feels…weird,” she murmured. Her voice tightened on the last word. “But good weird. Not bad weird.”
“Good weird is allowed,” I said softly.
She nodded once, eyes darting up, then back to her own hand like she couldn’t trust herself to look at me too long.
“I keep expecting my brain to freak out,” she whispered. “Tell me to stop. Tell me I’m doing something wrong. But it’s…quiet.”
Her thumb traced my collarbone.
“And that scares me,” she admitted. “Because I want to keep touching you. And wanting is…complicated.”
My throat felt too tight for words, but I forced them out. “You’re allowed to want things, Holly.”
“I know,” she said automatically—then paused. “Actually…I don’t. Not really. But I’m trying.” Her fingers drifted to my shoulder, following the seam of my shirt, slow and searching.
“I need you to know something,” she said, voice low but steadier now. “I’m not doing this because of the kiss. Or because you’re leaving again. I’m doing it because I chose to come here. I chose you. This moment.”
