It’s the way he meets me like he knows the difference between me freezing and me choosing. Like he has no interest in taking anything I don’t hand him. There’s something unbearable about being wanted without being pushed. That realization goes through me hot, sharp, and way too deep.
When we break, I’m breathing too fast. His hand is still on my face. Mine is still twisted in his jacket. He looks at me, eyes fixed on my mouth, and my whole body lights up again like it learned something the first time and would now like to be absolutely insufferable about it.
“That was—”
“Yeah.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“Didn’t think you wanted helpful.”
“I didn’t think I wanted that either.”
A pause.
“You did.”
I stare at him. “You’re pretty sure of yourself.”
“Not usually.”
That almost makes me laugh, which is annoying, because it’s not even that clever. It’s just him. The dry certainty of it. The fact that he says things like that without trying to charm me, which somehow works much better than if he did.
“It should concern you how little that reassures me.”
“It should reassure you a lot.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m right.”
Jesus Christ.
“That’s arrogant.”
“Probably,” He says.
That does make me laugh, and I hate how quickly he notices. His whole face doesn’t change, but something in it warms. Enough that I feel it like his hand low on my spine.
This is how women end up making terrible decisions and writing playlists about them.
“This is a terrible idea.”
“I know.”
“We should probably—”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t let go. Just watches me, like he’s waiting to see whether I’m about to lie to both of us. The smart thing would be to finish that sentence. The smart thing would be to step back, get in my car, go home, overfeed the feral dictator on my back step, and remember I have worked too hard for my life to start detonating it over a goalie with a god complex and unfair hands.
Instead, I stay right where I am. Which is, frankly, its own answer.
He kisses me again, slower.
Deliberate. Intentional. Like he’s learned the shape of my hesitation and decided to take his time proving he can get past it.He kisses me again, slower.
Deliberate. Intentional. Like he’s learned the shape of my hesitation and decided to take his time proving he can get past it. His thumb drags once along my jaw and something in me goes loose.
His other hand settles at my back and pulls me in, closer than necessary, closer than reasonable, and my body goes with him so fast it’s almost insulting.
