I let my thumb brush her cheekbone. Barely there.
“What would be considered breaking the intimacy clause again?”
A breathy laugh slips out of her, surprised and shaky. “We’re not supposed to engage in unscripted physical affection,” she says softly, “unless mutually agreed upon and documented in an update to the contract.”
“Right.”
I keep my voice even. Like this is just curiosity. Like my pulse isn’t roaring in my ears.
“Is this allowed?”
I trace the smallest arc along her cheek.
Her breath hitches.
“Yes,” she whispers.
My thumb drifts lower. Along the soft line of her jaw.
She sways toward me before she catches herself. Her hands curl into fists at her sides.
I lean in then. Slowly. Slowly enough that she could turn away.
Instead, she tilts her face up.
I press a kiss to her cheek. Just the corner. Barely pressure. Barely contact.
Her whole body shivers.
I pull back an inch. Watch her.
“How about that?”
Her hands come up and fist in the front of my shirt, like she needs the anchor.
“Yes,” she breathes.
But her eyes are no longer guarded.
They’re asking.
She rises onto her toes before I finish my next breath.
Her mouth finds mine with a quiet urgency that knocks every careful thought straight out of my head. The kiss isn’t reckless. It isn’t sloppy or wild.
It’s hungry in a restrained way. Like she’s been starving for weeks.
I go still for half a heartbeat. Long enough to register the softness. The trust. The way she fits against me like she already knows where she belongs.
Then my hands move to her waist.
I return the kiss slowly, deliberately, like I’m trying to memorize the feeling instead of rush through it. Her lips part with a soft sound that goes straight through me. Her fingers twist tighter in my shirt, pulling me closer, and I let myself follow.
The balcony disappears.
So does the building. The city. The clauses. The contracts. Every carefully negotiated rule we’ve been living inside.
There’s only her.
