Page 64 of Gap Control

He kissed me back hard. His hands reached out for my hips, grounding me. One pressed just above my waistband—possessive, steady.

I backed him into the wall, shoulder-first. We pushed our bodies close, our mouths open and messy, as if we were still arguing, without words.

His teeth grazed my bottom lip, and I groaned—too loud for the event, but it was real. I didn't care.

He pulled back just enough to murmur, "You always kiss like you're about to apologize."

"I'm not sorry."

"Good," he whispered, and kissed me again.

I didn't know how long it lasted. It was probably only thirty seconds, but it felt like months.

When we finally broke apart, he was breathing hard, and so was I.

I couldn't stop looking at his mouth.

I managed to say, "You realize this complicates the narrative."

"We didn't have a narrative. We had denial and merch."

That made me laugh. It was genuine, the kind that startled its way out of my chest and shook something loose inside me.

We stood there for another beat. Then, Mason straightened and smoothed his suit jacket like nothing happened—except his mouth was still kiss-bitten, and I knew he wasn't any steadier than I was.

"We should go back in," he said.

"We really, really shouldn't."

He was already walking away, and I watched him go.

I tried to remember how breathing worked without him in arm's reach. When I caught my breath, I followed.

The ballroom looked the same.

It was a room full of mirrors, chandeliers, and other vaguely expensive lighting. Everyone laughed, sipped cocktails with pun names, and pretended they didn't notice a few of the players checking each other out across the dance floor.

Nothing had changed, except I couldn't feel my mouth.

I could still taste Mason. I remembered how the kiss had started like an answer and ended like a promise.

He was already across the room, and he didn't look back. He didn't need to.

We'd already said it out loud. Just not where people could hear. Not where it could be posted, clipped, quoted, misread, or turned into merch.

Brady materialized beside me, clutching a clipboard. "Everything okay, Romeo?"

"Fine. I'm not the one who vanished for ten minutes to flirt with the dessert guy."

"First of all, his name is Josh, and he's a trained pastry chef. Second—don't deflect. You look like a man who just realized something inconvenient about his future."

I didn't answer because he was right. It wasn't an understanding that it was real between us. It was about knowing it was going to getout.

Maybe not tonight. Maybe not with a kiss in a hallway or the next fan post that swooned over how I looked at him, but soon.

Neither of us could keep pretending. Not in public and not with a straight face. Not when standing next to him made me want to confess things I hadn't even admitted to myself three months ago.

I moved through the rest of the night in a half-daze. Shook hands. Smiled. Took photos. Signed a poster of us mid-game with the captionSkates and Soulmatesscribbled in glitter pen.

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