“But,” I add quietly, the corner of my mouth tipping up, “it might be you who gets weird.”
His brows pull together. “Me?”
“Yeah,” I say, brushing my thumb lightly over his jaw. “You’re the one who doesn’t kiss anyone. What if you spiral? What if you suddenly start writing poetry or staring out windows dramatically?”
He snorts and a real smile tugs at his mouth.
“I don’t write poetry, Bells,” he laughs.
“Yet,” I tease. “One kiss and you’ll be penning tragic love letters and quoting song lyrics at me.”
He shakes his head, but there’s warmth in his eyes now. A flicker of something lighter.
“You’re impossible,” he says.
“And you’re dramatic,” I shoot back.
His smile lingers.
It changes his whole face. Softens the sharp edges. Makes him look less dangerous.
He watches me for a second longer, something unreadable moving behind his eyes. Then he reaches up, slides my glasses off my face, and places them carefully on the small table beside the couch.
His hand comes back to me, fingers sliding along my jaw, cradling it gently.
My heart is hammering so hard in my chest.
I’ve kissed boys before.
Good boys. Safe boys. The kind who held my hand in hallways and asked permission with shy smiles. I had a boyfriend for a year. We did things. We learned from each other slowly.
But I was never this nervous because this feels so different. This is us standing on the edge of something that could change everything.
He looks at me once more, searching my face as if giving me a final out.
“Still sure?” he murmurs, voice rough.
I nod, barely able to speak.
He leans in. The first touch of his mouth against mine is soft. Almost hesitant. His lips brush mine, barely there, like he’s testing the shape of them.
It steals my breath away.
He pauses, just for a second, learning.
He doesn’t rush it.
He doesn’t take.
He tastes.
My fingers curl into his shirt without thinking.
His mouth moves against mine in a way that feels nothing like the boys I’ve kissed before.
His thumb brushes the hinge of my jaw, and my knees go weak even though I’m lying down. His touch moves lower, slow enough to make my breath catch. Down the side of my neck. When his fingers reach the base of my throat, they curl there.
Not squeezing.
