Page 3 of Kisses and Paperclips

His smile came easy, as if he was waiting for me to catch up. “I’m not.” His voice was smooth, light, and a little teasing.

“I respect a people who takes what they wants.”

Butterflies. Not the delicate kind; these dive-bombed my stomach, wings frantic and insistent. I glanced away, but it was no use. Don’t look at me like that. Trouble always came wrapped in a smile that knew exactly how much power it held.

“I wouldn’t call it taking what I wanted,”

“Oh?” He tilted his head, amusement pulled at his lips. “What would you call it, then?”

“A gentleman helping a lady in need?”

His gaze sharpened, “That kiss wasn’t very… lady-like.”

“Excuse me?” Heat rushed to my cheeks, and I knew damn well what he was hinting at. That kiss wasn’t polite, wasn’t shy. It was bold, electric—exactly what I needed and couldn’t resist.

“You didn’t have to kiss me,” he said, his voice smooth as a jazz saxophone. “You had options.”

I huffed out a laugh and rolled my eyes. “Maybe I was scared and not thinking clearly.”

“You didn’t seem scared.”

A scoff escaped me at the nerve of this guy. “I’m a woman being harassed in the street alone. Just because I think fast doesn’t mean I wasn’t scared.”

His eyes stayed on me, studying me, like he was waiting for something more. Or like I was some puzzle or something. But there was nothing more to say. He didn’t get it. How could he? He had never felt the way your stomach knots up when a stranger lingers too long, or how your heart pounds when someone ignores the word no like it’s just a suggestion.

Just last night, I saw a news report about a woman attacked outside a gym...in broad daylight, with people passing by. It wasn’t security or some noble stranger who saved her. It was other women. Because we know. We don’t have a choice then to know.

I exhaled sharply, shaking my head. “Doesn’t matter,” I muttered.

His brow creased. “That look says otherwise.”

“It’s nothing.” I forced my shoulders into a shrug, my voice light, dismissive. “You wouldn’t get it.”

A challenge flickered behind his eyes. “Try me.”

A breath of laughter escaped me—short, humorless. I was already turning away, already setting distance between us. “Look, thanks for the save—”

His hand lifted, not touching me, just hovering there like a roadblock. Not forceful. Not demanding. Just enough to make me pause.

“People won’t always understand your lived experience,” he said, his voice steady, sure. “But that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be shared. That’s how we change the world, one perspective at a time.”

I blinked, caught off guard.

Not because I hadn’t heard men say something like this before. But because I’d never heard one say it like this—without defensiveness, without trying to counter or diminish, without the dreaded not all men hovering in the background like an inevitable footnote.

Many men loved to argue for sport. Loved to play devil’s advocate like the game wasn’t rigged, like the stakes weren’t already high enough for women like me.

But this one? He wasn’t arguing. He wasn’t explaining me to me. He was just… saying it. Stating a truth with no expectation of applause, no need to be right. Just ready to listen.

And tha’t… different.

I hated that it gave me pause. That it intrigued me. That it made me look at him for half a second longer than I should have.

I hated that it threw me. That it sat heavy in my chest like something unshakable. That for half a second, I looked at him—really looked at him—and saw something I didn’t expect.

And I hated even more that I was a little impressed.

“You could always explain it to me over a drink,” he said, flashing a grin—effortless, confident. The kind that could make a nun rethink her vows.

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