I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
He reaches for my hand, slow and deliberate, like he’s handling something breakable.
Our fingers brush, then interlace, and it’s not an accident this time. His hand is huge, warm even in the cold, and when he squeezes, I can feel the tremor in his grip.
My own hand is shaking. I try to play it cool, but the sharp inhale I take is so loud he glances over, mouth quirked like he’s won a bet. “You good?” he says.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just… didn’t think we’d ever do this.”
“Me neither,” he admits.
We don’t talk after that. The sunset burns out, the city lights take over, and for a while we just exist.
There’s no past or future, just the now, just the heat of his hand and the cold of the sand and the taste of salt on my lips.
He’s close enough that I can see the stubble on his jaw, the way the wind ruffles his hair, the line of scar on his chin from the last time he tried to fight a puck with his face.
We sit, breathing in the same air, until I can’t stand it anymore.
He leans in first. Not a lot, just enough to close the gap. I feel his breath, warm and nervous, on my cheek.
He waits, giving me a chance to bail, but I don't. I tilt my head, our foreheads almost bump, and then his lips brush mine, warm despite the cold air, chapped from the wind but impossibly gentle, the pressure so light it's like being touched by a ghost.
His breath tastes like the mint gum he's always chewing during practice, and when he exhales against my mouth, I can feel the slight tremble in it, like he's as terrified as I am.
The first kiss is always supposed to be fire, or electricity, or something poetic, but this one is slow, almost accidental, like we’re both waiting for the other to change their mind.
It’s just a press of lips, a taste of salt, a shudder of air between us.
My hand is still in his, our fingers laced together like the roots of two trees that grew too close.
His thumb traces lazy circles on the back of my wrist, right over the pulse point, slow and soothing, the callus on his fingertip catching slightly against my skin with each pass.
The contrast of his rough hockey hands against that tender spot makes something in my chest contract.
He pulls away, but only by an inch. His eyes are dark, almost black in the dusk.
I want to say something, but all I can do is kiss him back.
The second time, it’s deeper.
Less scared. I can feel his whole body tense, then relax, like he’s been holding his breath for years and finally got permission to exhale.
Our mouths fit, not perfect but close, like puzzle pieces from two different boxes that somehow connect anyway.
When our teeth bump, a sharp, unexpected click, I laugh into the kiss, a vibration that travels from my chest to his.
He laughs too, the sound low and warm against my lips, and suddenly the world tilts just a little, like the axis of the earth is shifting beneath the sand to make room for us, for this moment where the taste of salt and mint and possibility mingles between our breath.
When we break, we’re both breathing hard, faces flushed, the cold forgotten.
He puts his forehead to mine, just for a second, then sits back. “Shit,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say, voice shredded.
We sit there, hand in hand, neither talking. The only thing in the world is us and the sound of our own blood rushing.
Eventually, the cold creeps back in. Darius stands, brushes off his pants, and pulls me up.
