Waiting.
I reach out without thinking, intending to steady her.
My fingers brush her shoulder, and stay there.
She doesn't pull back.
Instead, she leans into the contact like she's been waiting for permission.
Her eyes drop to my mouth.
Her lips part, barely.
The air between us tightens, charged with everything we haven't said.
I pull her closer.
And kiss her.
The kiss is slow. Certain. Unmistakably real.
Her hand comes up, fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt, anchoring herself as I deepen the kiss.
She tastes like mint and something sweeter I can't name, and the soft sound she makes against my mouth unravels every carefully constructed boundary I've built.
I slide my hand from her shoulder to the nape of her neck, threading my fingers into her hair, tilting her head just enough to change the angle.
She responds immediately, stepping closer, eliminating space until there's nothing left between us but heat and intention.
When we finally part, it's not because either of us wants to.
It's because we have to breathe.
The silence afterward is heavier than before.
Lindsay's chest rises and falls quickly, her cheeks flushed, eyes bright in a way that makes my pulse stutter.
I don't let go.
Neither does she.
"Arthur," she whispers.
I don't answer with words.
I lean in again, brushing my lips against hers once more—softer this time, slower, like I'm memorizing the shape of this moment.
Because I never want to stop.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
But it has.
And I'm not sorry.
Lindsay pulls back slightly, just enough to meet my eyes.
A smile dances on her lips—small, uncertain, hopeful.
