Hungry.
Like he’s been starving.
My brain short-circuits.
It’s Tristan.
It has to be.
No one else smells like cedar and clean soap and trouble.
My fingers fist his jacket without permission.
He kisses like he does everything—confident, reckless, like the world belongs to him.
Teeth grazing my bottom lip. Breath mixing. Hands sliding to my waist like he’s claiming territory.
I’m drowning.
Floating.
Burning.
All at once.
“Tris—” I gasp.
Is this finally happening? Him. Me. Us?
He makes this low sound in his throat that wrecks me.
And for one stupid, fragile second…
I let myself believe it.
Believe maybe he didn’t ask me to dance because he didn’t want an audience.
Maybe this is ours.
Maybe I’m not a joke.
Maybe—
The lights slam back on.
Music crashes back.
Voices everywhere.
And we’re suddenly visible.
The curtains opened sometime when we were in the dark.Sometime when I was lost in this insane kiss and what if’s.
And now we were the main show.
My lipstick smeared. His hands still on my hips.
People staring.
