His hand stilled.
“Let’s not talk about that tonight.”
“That’s a very Zenith Hall answer. Sounds like something Juno would say.”
“It’s the only answer I can give without ruining the part where I’m trying to be brave.”
The wind moved between us. The apple sat on the stone ledge beside his hand.
“What are you being brave about?”
“You.”
He stepped closer.
The Pull doubled at the half-step, and then the half-step closed, and green apple and sun-warmed stone were at my mouth before his mouth was.
“I want to kiss you,” he said.
“Are you asking?”
“Badly, it would seem.”
“Then ask better.”
He looked at my mouth.
Then my eyes.
“May I kiss you?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
His mouth came down.
Mine came up to meet his lips.
The wind gusted around us, cold and sharp with apple, but his body near mine was warm.
I hadn’t been kissed in two years.
I had forgotten the first shock of it: the heat of another mouth, the small helpless catch of breath, the way a body could go still and reach at the same time.
Kieran kissed like he had talked himself out of this a hundred times tonight and failed on purpose.
One hand stayed on the stone beside me.
The other lifted toward my waist, stopped, and closed on nothing.
I kissed him harder, lacing my fingers through his and pulling him closer.
His breath broke against mine.
The Pull rose between us, orchards and riverstone, autumn wind off the clock tower. It filled my mouth until I couldn’t tell what was magic and what was him.
When he pulled back, he did it slowly.
Like stopping took effort, and he made the effort anyway.
