Raven closed the door and leaned against it, eyes closed, remembering the kiss in vivid, overwhelming detail.
The thing was, she'd kissed plenty of women. Had quick, passionate encounters in dressing room bathrooms and backstage corridors. Had sweaty, urgent sex in hotel rooms after gigs, fueled by adrenaline and alcohol and the high of performance.
With Alissa, it had always been like that. Quick. Intense. Up against walls or in bathroom stalls or anywhere they could steal a few minutes between rehearsals. It had been exciting in its own way, but it had also been… shallow. A release. A way to burn off energy without actually connecting.
This was different.
This wasn't the desperate, clawing need to possess someone. It wasn't about power or control or proving anything.
This was about wanting totreasureAnnabelle. To touch her like she could be broken. To take time. To be gentle.
To make her feel as precious as Raven was starting to realize she actually was.
The thought terrified her.
Because Raven didn'tdogentle. She did intensity and passion and overwhelming chaos. She did all-or-nothing, burning bright until everything turned to ash.
But with Annabelle…
With Annabelle, she wanted to learn how to do slow. How to do careful. How to touch someone without destroying them in the process.
She wanted to kiss Annabelle properly, not just that single desperate moment at the door. Wanted to learn what made her sigh, what made her laugh, what made her come undone.
Wanted to worship her the way she deserved to be worshiped, bright and beautiful and achingly kind.
The realization was so overwhelming that Raven had to sit down.
She'd never wanted anyone like this before. Had never felt this strange combination of lust and tenderness, this desire not just to have someone but tocherishthem.
It was new. It was confusing. It was absolutely terrifying.
And it was not going away.
"Bollocks," Raven said to her empty cottage. "I am so completely fucked."
But even as she said it, she was smiling.
Because for the first time in months, maybe years, she feltalive. The creative block had cracked open. The words were coming. The music was flowing.
And it was all because of Annabelle Swift and her ridiculous biscuits and her inability to mind her own business and her fierce insistence that Raven wasn't difficult, she was real.
She was terrified. She was exhilarated. She was falling for her neighbor in a way that was absolutely not part of the plan.
But for once in her life, maybe that was okay.
Maybe sometimes the best things weren't planned at all.
Chapter Twenty-One
Two days.
It had been two days since the kiss, and Annabelle was now officially spiraling, as opposed to the slightly dramatic unofficial spiral of the day after the kiss.
She'd told herself she wouldn't spiral. She'd promised Lily she wouldn't spiral. She'd even made a list of reasons why spiraling was both unhelpful and unnecessary.
And yet here she was, standing in front of her Year Three class, explaining division while her brain replayed the same question on an endless loop:Why is Raven avoiding me?
"Ms. Swift?" Louis raised his hand. "You said eight divided by two is seventeen."
