Page 11 of Mashed Hearts
“Agreed.” A pause. “But I’m not complaining.”
I turn to face him. We’re close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the tiny scar on his eyebrow from the time he tried to skateboard off the cafeteria roof. “We’re not seventeen anymore.”
“No,” he says. “We’re not.”
His thumb brushes my collarbone, feather-light. “But some things don’t expire, Kait.”
My breath hitches. “Like what?”
He leans in, slow enough that I could stop him. I don’t. His lips hover over mine, warm breath mingling. “Like the way youtaste. Like the way you fit against me. Like the way I still check my phone at 2 a.m. hoping for a text that saysdrive safe, idiot.”
I close the gap.
This kiss is different. No audience. No timer. Just us, slow and deep and deliberate, like we’re rewriting the ending we never got. His hand slides into my hair, angling me exactly where he wants me. I fist his flannel, pulling him closer until I’m half in his lap, the couch creaking under us.
We break apart only when oxygen becomes non-negotiable. Foreheads pressed together, breathing ragged.
“Still think distance is just geography?” I whisper.
He laughs, shaky. “I think I’m an idiot who flew three thousand miles to find out.”
I trace the line of his jaw. “And?”
“And I’m not leaving this couch until you tell me to.”
I kiss him again—soft, sweet, a promise. “Then don’t.”
Somewhere down the hall, Beth yells, “USE PROTECTION, CHILDREN!”
We burst out laughing, foreheads still touching, the fire finally winking out behind us. The cabin is quiet. The snow keeps falling. And for the first time in four years, the space between us isn’t measured in miles.
It’s measured in heartbeats.
josh
. . .
I’m kissingKait Jamison on a couch that’s older than our combined high school GPAs, and time has officially checked out. One second her mouth is soft and tentative under mine, the next it’s open and hungry, and I’m pretty sure the space-time continuum just folded like a cheap lawn chair. My hand is fisted in her hair—still smells like that vanilla shampoo she’s used since junior year—and her fingers are twisted so tight in my flannel I’m half-convinced she’s trying to tattoo the plaid onto my skin. The fire crackles like it’s live-tweeting the whole thing.
We break apart only because lungs are apparently non-negotiable. Foreheads pressed, breathing ragged, the kind of oxygen-deprived haze that makes you see stars even when the ceiling’s just knotty pine. Her lips are swollen, glossy with shared spit and the ghost of peppermint cocoa, and I’m 1000% sure my dick is trying to file a formal complaint with my brain.
“Hi,” she whispers, voice husky in a way that should come with a parental advisory.
“Hi,” I croak back. My throat feels like I swallowed a fistful of glass.
She laughs—soft, breathy, the sound that used to live in my ear during late-night phone calls—and it shoots straight to my groin like a heat-seeking missile. I shift, trying to be subtle about the situation in my sweatpants. The couch creaks like it’s personally offended by my life choices.
I want to keep going. I want to map the slope of her neck with my tongue, want to slide my hands under that oversized sweater and relearn every inch of skin I used to trace with flashlight beams under blankets. I want to carry her down the hall, kick the door shut, and spend the rest of the week proving to her I’m not the dumbass who left. But this is Kait. This isus. And the last thing I want is to push when we’re still figuring out if the rules of engagement have changed since we were seventeen and invincible.
So I do the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my entire life: I let her go.
She sits back, tucking a wild strand of hair behind her ear, cheeks flushed the color of the cranberry sauce we demolished earlier. “We should… probably…”
“Yeah,” I say, even though every cell in my body is screamingno, stay, let’s set this couch on fire and call it performance art. “Separate beds. Adulting. Boundaries. All that responsible bullshit.”
She bites her lip—don’t look, don’t look—and nods. “Night, Josh.”
“Night, Wait.” I stand, adjust my hoodie, and everything south of the border, and force my legs to carry me down the hall before I do something colossally stupid like drop to my knees and beg her to let me worship at the altar of thighs.
