“Are you sure?” she asks. “I mean, we barely know each other outside of the bar.”
I can’t restrain the laugh that burrows out from my chest. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Okay, you know my coffee order, but—”
I cut her off. “Mira, we’ve been talking non-stop for weeks. I know so much about you. For instance, I know you splurge on Chinese takeout every Sunday because you know you’ll have leftovers. That you love blasting Midwest emo so loud your neighbors have called in two noise ordinances against you. That you always give the unhoused guy outside a dollar and that you let Lilah borrow that sheer black top for her date. It looks better on you by the way, so I hope she gave it back.”
A little laugh sneaks out of her mouth.
“But more than that I know that I wake up every morning excited to see you, that I check my phone the second I wake up hoping there’s a text from you. I wish I could be there in that apartment when you’re working late, so I could coax you to sleep with good wine or multiple orgasms. Or that every day I go without seeing you, I write down everything I want to share with you on my notes app, so I don’t forget a single thing.”
Mira diverts her gaze from me, a pretty pink hue building along her cheeks, and I turn her chin back towards me.
“I know that this scar,” I say, running my finger along the discolored line on her arm, “happened when you had to hike down Hanging Rock after an engagement session and you vowed to never do a shoot there again.”
She lifts her head, her eyes staring up at me. “I never told you that story.”
“No, but you told Lilah.”
She stares at me quizzically as if trying to place the memory.
“It was my first day,” I say, filling in the blanks. “You were sitting there, drinking whiskey and, I dunno, you looked so cool. Like you never needed anyone to take care of you. And I knew I didn’t stand a chance. But I listened to your stories, I followed your photography page the day you asked if you could put one of your stickers on the bar. I couldn’t help taking an interest.”
I take a deep breath, as the butterflies that used to visit me every time she walked into Finn’s make a reappearance in my stomach.
“You know it took me a week to work up the courage to ask for your drink order.”
“But I always get the same thing.”
“I know.” I smile, recalling how my hand trembled the first time I grabbed the whiskey bottle for her. “But that was the day you let me in. And I promised that I’d never let myself squander your attention.”
“Why did you wait so long to ask me out then?”
“If you haven’t noticed, my life, my relationships, my family, it’s complicated. But I didn’t want to fuck anything up between us by asking you out, or putting too much pressure on us. I thought I could settle for your friendship, even if all I ever thought about was what it would be like to lean across that bar and kiss you.”
“So that’s your excuse then?” she laughs, throwing her arms around my neck and running her fingers through my hair.
“Excuse?”
“For never being able to make a drink?” she asks, pulling me towards her until our mouths are a breath apart. “Because you wanted to kiss me?”
“I feel like it’s a pretty good excuse,” I say as she brings her mouth to mine. Her tongue slips into my mouth, and my hand crawls up her back, stopping at the back of her neck, steadying her against me. Our bodies respond to each other as if we are tethered, the push and pull creating a delicious friction before she reaches for the button of my pants.
As much as I want this, to be with her, to know her in this way, I want her to be sure.
“Mira,” I breathe.
“Hudson,” she says, matching my tone.
“We don’t have to do this right now,” I say, giving her an out.
“I’ve had a lot of really shitty things happen in my life lately, but being with you made them feel inconsequential,” she explains, her hazel eyes soft in the warm glow from the bedside lamp. “And I know what I need right now, what I want, is to be with you. So unless you want me to stop ...”
I can’t find the words to argue when she bites the delicate skin of my neck. The bruise she left on Monday has almost faded and I’m eager for her to write over it, to brand me, to let everyone know that I’m hers.
My fingers fumble with the buttons of my shirt, quickly going down the line as her nails rake down my chest. The black polish is chipped and faded, her signature look. I grab one of her hands and kiss her palm, pinning it behind her head.
Her hair’s been let loose, the deep-brown curls falling around her face, and I weave my fingers through it, guiding her mouth tomine. Her tongue slips into my mouth, and she moves against me with an unbridled passion as if kissing me is the only thing keeping her breathing, and I want to be that oxygen.
