— It was convincing, he says.
— It’s my job to be convincing.
— Of course, he replies quickly. You must be used to on-screen kisses.
I shrug.
— They’re usually far more technical than romantic. Head positioning, camera angles, that kind of thing.
— I see, he says, taking a sip. And how do you kiss when it’s not for the camera?
The question catches me completely off guard.
— Excuse me?
Callum flushes slightly but doesn’t look away.
— I’m just curious about the difference between a camera kiss and a real one. For educational purposes, obviously.
— For educational purposes, I repeat slowly, a smile forming on my lips. Are you trying to get yourself kissed, Callum McGregor?
— I’m asking a purely theoretical question, he insists, though his eyes say otherwise. As a man married for less than twenty-four hours, I feel I should be informed of these nuances.
I set my champagne flute on the nightstand, suddenly very aware of my breathing, of his proximity, of the electricity between us.
— It’s a complex question, I say, turning slightly toward him. I think a demonstration would be more effective than a long explanation.
Something ignites in his gaze—desire, surprise—and it gives me the courage to continue.
— If you’re truly interested in this purely educational lesson.
— I’m a strong advocate for continued education, he replies, his voice lower now.
My heart pounds as I move closer. He’s still seated, looking up at me. I take his glass and set it beside mine, then, with deliberate slowness, place my hands on either side of his face. His skin is warm beneath my fingers, a faint roughness where his stubble is coming in.
— The main difference between a movie kiss and a real one, I murmur, my lips inches from his, is the intention behind it.
His eyes stay locked on mine—intense, vulnerable.
— Show me, he breathes.
— In a movie kiss, the intention is to appear authentic—for the camera, for the audience. Everything is calculated, controlled, precise.
My thumbs brush lightly over his cheekbones.
— But in a real kiss…
My voice trails off, my focus completely captured by his mouth, by the unbearable tension between us.
— Yes? he prompts, barely audible.
— In a real kiss, the intention is to connect, to communicate without words, to…
Instead of finishing, I close the distance and press my lips to his.
He freezes for a fraction of a second—surprised, despite everything—then his arms wrap around my waist, pulling me closer.
This kiss is nothing like the one beneath the arch. There’s no audience, no performance. It’s just Jane and Callum—everything we are, everything we’re beginning to feel.
