Page 110 of Make the Play

“And you’re deflecting.”

His hands tighten, and he turns me to face him.

“Say it.”

“You are so annoyi—”

“Zoe.”

His voice changes, dropping low and gentle in a way that makes my stomach hurt. I feel it in my chest, and it feels real. Achy. Fuck.

“Say it.”

I shake my head. “I hate you.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “No, youdon’t.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, heart hammering, fingers clutching at his shirt like I can somehow ground myself.

“Tell me you want me to kiss you.”

The words hit somewhere low and terrifying. I can’t breathe around them, can’t dodge them like I’ve done every other time. I want to run, but he’s right there, steady and sure and waiting like he already knows the answer. I inhale shakily, then open my eyes, taking him in as he continues.

“Tell me it’s not for a laugh or because of the festival, or the fucking rules, or whatever excuse you’re using to stop yourself from feeling this.”

I shake my head again, faster, because this is spiraling, because he’s right, because I don’t have control anymore, because—

“Tell me you’re kissing me because you justwantto. Because you’ve wanted to for longer than you’ll admit.”

And God, I hate him for this. For knowing me too well, for seeing through every single excuse I try to throw his way.

Because this isn’t just a kiss. It won’t be. It’s going to be the kind of thing that brands itself into memory. Stupid and electric and maybe permanent—and he knows it.

He squeezes my hips once, dipping his head to eye-level. “Tell me, Zo.”

A sharp, shattered exhale leaves me, the words spilling out of my ribcage.

“I want you to kiss me because I just fuckingneedyou to, okay?!”

There’s a momentary pause as his eyes lock on mine, scanning for any trace of hesitation. Checking for any reason to stop, but he finds none.

His hands yank my hips closer, his mouth crashes onto mine, and I collapse into him with no other choice but to free-fall.

He kisses me like this is something he’s been waiting on permission for, and now that he’s got it, he’s not wasting a single second.

It’s not sweet, it’s teeth and tongues and weeks of pent-up tension detonating all at once. A kiss that’s part rage, part relief. One hand grips my jaw and angles my head, the other fists my skirt, dragging me tighter against his body like I’m the only thing keeping him steady.

But I’m not steady.

I’m melting. Drowning. Spiraling into him because gravity doesn’t exist anywhere but in his arms.

I feel the way his body stands rock-solid against mine, legs braced, keeping us upright in the crush of the crowd. The scratch of his stubble against my jaw. The way his breath hitches when I bite his lower lip, pulling him closer because this isn’t enough.

His hand slides to cup the back of my neck, fingers splaying and holding me in place as he groans against my mouth. It’s frantic and real, the kind of sound that rewires your brain and ruins you forever.

I rise onto my toes, arms locked around his shoulders as his tighten around me. His mouth drags lower along my jaw, to thecorner of my mouth, then back to my lips like he can’t choose where to worship first.

“Fuck,” he mutters against me, mouth greedy. “You havenoidea.”

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