Page 28 of Who Let The Wolves Out?

She shakes her head.

So I move closer.

I don’t rush it. I just lean in, slow and steady, until I’m close enough to see the freckles beneath her lashes.

Her breath catches.

Our noses almost touch.

“If I kissed you right now,” I say, “would you stop me?”

She swallows. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

She nods.

And I don’t wait another second.

I kiss her.

And it’s not gentle.

It’s not soft and sweet like those almosts we’ve shared. It’s hungry. Real. Like every damn second we’ve spent dancing around each other finally snapped and the music came rushing in.

Her hands are in my hair. Mine at her waist. She melts into me like she’s been waiting for this—needing this.

The kiss slows, eventually. Breath turns to silence again. I press my forehead to hers, eyes closed.

“That was...” I begin.

She exhales. “Yeah.”

I fall back into the grass beside her.

We don’t say anything for a long while.

Just breathe.

She reaches for my hand again, and this time, laces our fingers tight.

And all I can think is: finally.

Her fingers tighten in mine, and for a few seconds, we just lie there, breathing each other in. The cicadas hum somewherein the distance. The stars stretch above us like spilled sugar, and her hair’s brushing my shoulder, soft as anything.

Then she shifts. Rolls onto her side, facing me.

I turn too, and suddenly we’re eye to eye again. Closer this time.

There’s something about her right now—barefaced and open and full of that quiet strength—that hits harder than any punch I’ve ever taken.

She reaches up, fingertips brushing my jaw. Her thumb lingers on the corner of my mouth.

“I liked that,” she says, voice barely audible. “The kiss.”

“Good,” I murmur, “because I’m about to do it again.”

This one starts slower. A question.

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