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I let go, but slowly, my fingers sliding over the inside of her wrist before my hand falls back to my side.

Merry’s cheeks are pink again.

“Oh my god, this is horrifying.”

“I think it’s cute.”

Her eyes finally, finally come back to mine. For someone who has spent most of the night producing words at an impressive rate, Merry goes completely still when I flirt with her.

And I am flirting with her.

This realization should probably scare me more than it does. But instead, I’m watching the little crease between her eyebrows disappear as her expression softens, and wondering what else I could say to make her look at me like that.

“You think I’m cute?” she asks.

I can tell she’s trying to be funny again, but her voice has gone quieter. I let my eyes move over her face, slowly enough that she absolutely cannot confuse what I’m doing.

The glitter at her cheek. The little crown in her hair. Those blue eyes that have been finding mine from across the room all night.

And then her mouth.

When I look back up, Merry isn’t smiling anymore.

“Yes,” I say. “I think you’re cute.”

She breathes out.

“Okay.” Merryweather giggles, and then she covers her eyes, for a second, with her hand again. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to that.”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

“That seems unlikely. I usually have something to say.”

“I’ve noticed, yes.”

Her laugh is quieter this time, barely more than a breath. Then her eyes drop to my mouth, and there is nothing funny about the way she looks at me now.

Her eyes stay on that spot long enough that I feel it there, an awareness that starts at my lips and spreads lower, warming my chest despite the cool air against my skin.

When Merry looks up again, something has changed in her face. The nerves are still there. I can see them in the way she swallows and in the slight movement of her fingers at her side, curling into her palm and releasing again. But she doesn’t look around or direct her attention to the pumpkins this time. She doesn’t reach for another joke or start talking about the weather or find some other harmless thing to put between us.

She looks at me.

And I absolutely let her.

I don’t know how long we stand there. Probably only a few seconds, but they stretch strangely long enough for me to notice the music vibrating faintly through the glass behind her, the flashes of colors from the dance floor reflecting on her smooth skin.

Merry takes a breath.

“Can I kiss you?” she asks.

So quiet I almost don’t hear it, which feels impossible because the question seems to move through every part of me at once.

My heart gives one hard beat against my ribs.

“Yes.”

Merry doesn’t move. She simply looks at me, as if maybe she wasn’t prepared for the possibility that I would consent.