"Ready?" he said.
"Do I look okay?"
"You look like you're wearing a fourteen-dollar flannel and you haven't slept in a week."
"So my best."
"Your absolute best."
He took the photo.
We looked at it. Two guys on a bridge. Liam's arm around Alex. Alex leaning into Liam. Both of them grinning—real grins, not performance grins, the kind that come from somewhere you can't fake. The flannel. The bridge. The golden light.
Evidence. The only proof in the world that this existed.
"Send it to me," I said.
He did. I felt my phone buzz in my pocket.
Then he looked at me. The phone lowering. His eyes steady. The grin fading into something quieter, warmer, more certain.
He kissed me.
Not desperate. Not stolen. Not rushed. Not in a dorm room with the door locked, not in a shower with the walls echoing, not in a boathouse with one ear listening for footsteps.
Just a kiss. On a bridge. In the daylight. The creek running underneath us and the leaves falling around us.
His mouth was warm. His hand found the side of my face—his palm against my jaw, his thumb on my cheekbone. Gentle. Sure. The way he touched me when there was time, when there was no rush, when nobody was going to walk in.
I pulled him closer. My hands on his waist, the flannel bunching under my grip. He stepped into me and my back found the railing and we were pressed together—chest to chest, mouth to mouth, the full length of our bodies touching with nothing between us but clothes and cold air.
The kiss deepened. His tongue finding mine. My hands sliding up his back under his jacket. The sound he made—quiet, almost a sigh—that vibrated against my lips.
This was what it was supposed to feel like. This was what people meant when they talked about kissing someone and the rest of the world going away. This was the real version. The one we deserved. Two people on a bridge in the middle of nowhere, kissing like they were allowed to.
A dog barked somewhere on the trail.
We pulled apart. Not fast—slow, reluctant, our foreheads resting together for a second before the distance came back.
Footsteps on the trail. Getting closer. A woman's voice calling "Baxter! Come!" The jingle of a collar.
A bark echoed up the trail again and I turned. Before I could—
A golden retriever bounded onto the bridge and launched itself at me—muddy paws on my chest, tongue going for my face, tail whipping hard.
"Whoa—hey—okay—" I stumbled back laughing, catching the dog by the collar. It was wiggling so hard its whole body was wagging, not just the tail. Warm brown eyes. Soaking wet from the creek.
"Oh my god," Alex said, and dropped to his knees immediately. The dog abandoned me and barreled into him, licking his face while Alex scratched behind its ears with both hands. "Hey buddy. Hey. You're perfect. You're the best dog I've ever met."
"Dog lover?" I said.
"Look at this face." The dog was panting, leaning its full weight into Alex's chest. Alex was grinning. He looked up at me while the dog licked at his neck.
Our eyes met.
Him on his knees on the bridge with a golden retriever in his lap, laughing.
Something turned over in my chest. Not desire. Something quieter. The image of a life I hadn't known I wanted until this second—a thrift store, a dog, a Sunday. Something simple, something real, something safe.
