“I’m here.”
Slowly, I turn in his loose embrace.
I am still inside his arms, his hand now at the small of my back. I can feel the tremor still running through me, but it is fading, draining out into the sidewalk.
I look up at him.
My face feels pale. My eyes feel huge. Luminous in the orange streetlight. The anger is gone. The fear is gone.
It is just me.
Raw, real, and vulnerable, and I hate it.
“You,” I say, breathless, “are an excellent baker, Leo.”
He lets out a shaky laugh. The last of the adrenaline drains away, leaving something warm and soft in its wake.
“B plus, you said,” he murmurs. “Just B plus.”
“Maybe…” I whisper, and I hate that my eyes drop to his mouth. I hate that my body is doing this. “Maybe an A minus.”
His eyes are on my mouth too.
“For…” I swallow. “For Snorlax.”
“Yeah?” he whispers.
“Yeah.”
And suddenly the world dissolves.
It is not the bakery. It is not the locker room. It is not the dare. It is just a quiet street corner, a man who smells like flour, and a feeling in my chest so bright it hurts.
“Tess,” he murmurs.
It is a question, an apology, and a plea all at once.
He leans down.
Slowly.
So slowly.
He gives me all the time in the world to pull away. To rebuild the wall. To turn this into something I can control.
I don’t.
I rise onto my toes just a little. My hands slide up his arms. One hand grabbing his sweat-damp T-shirt, right over the gold star sticker, like I need something solid to hold onto. The other comes to rest on his chest, my small calloused palm flat over his hammering heart.
And he kisses me.
It is not the frantic, frustrated almost kiss from the locker room. It is soft. Hesitant. Gentle. So impossibly sweet.
It feels like a question, and my lips, soft and chapped and tasting faintly of cinnamon, are the answer.
It is a kiss of equals. Two people who have seen the real, messy, tired, lonely parts of each other and did not run.
I kiss him back.
