Our foreheads touched.
Her breath was wine and summer and something that felt like promise.
I could feel her pulse under my palm where I’d braced myself against her waist. Fast. Matching mine.
I didn’t kiss her yet.
I wanted to.
God, I wanted to.
The tealights flickered low, little halos of gold around the blanket. Fireflies drifted lazy and bright through the willow branches, blinking on and off like stars testing the sky. The pond behind us whispered against the stone.
She hadn’t moved away.
Not even an inch.
Her knee still pressed to mine.
Her fingers still curled at the back of my neck.
I could feel the heat of her through my shirt like a second pulse.
I swallowed.
“Say something,” I murmured, because if she didn’t, I was going to lose my mind.
She didn’t.
Instead, her hand slid from my hair down to my jaw.
Slow.
Careful.
Like I might break.
Her thumb traced the edge of my cheekbone, then the corner of my mouth, like she was mapping me.
Her eyes weren’t playful anymore.
They were heavy.
Dark.
Focused.
Like I was the only thing in the world she could see.
“I could get addicted to you,” she’d said.
But now she looked wrecked, hungry.
Like the song had done something to her she didn’t expect.
Good.
Because she’d been doing that to me all day.
