That sensation—the feeling of him so close to me that his words are almost a kiss—is heart-stoppingly familiar. I’m almost positive he held me like this last night, but the memory is slippery. So thin it’s almost transparent.
“Why?” I ask, though I’m not sure if I’m askingwhy he wants me to ask again later or why I almost remember this moment from last night.
He doesn’t answer.
Instead, he kisses me.
And there’s no mistaking it for anything else. His lips on mine. Warm. Insistent. Firm.
Not questioning, but answering.
Like kissing me is his right. Like it’s what he was born to do.
Maybe it is.
Because Miller is good at a lot of things. He’s a great coder. He’s an amazing friend. He’s even a perfect Dothraki warrior. But all those skills pale compared to this one.
It turns out that the thing Miller is best at is kissing me.
nineteen
“YOU SEXY THING” — HOT CHOCOLATE
Miller
Kissing Tavey is everything I imagined it would be.
She tastes like tears and bubblegum and defiance.
It’s the taste of tears that stops me.
I pull back, angling her face so she has to look up at me, and say, “Here’s the thing, Tavey.” I mirror her words back deliberately, watching her eyes widen slightly in recognition. “You think this is an either/or situation. Friends or lovers. It’s not.”
“It’s not?” Her pupils are blown wide. Her voice is barely above a whisper.
“No. It’sand.”
“And?”
“Friendsandlovers. That’s the important detail.”
She seems to be turning the idea over in her head like it’s something she’s never considered before. Like a piece of code that suddenly resolves into something elegant and obvious. Beautiful in its simplicity. “Friends and lovers.”
“Exactly.” I brush my thumbs over her cheeks, clearing the tears that have tracked silently down her face. And I let myself look at her. Really look. At the surprise in her expression. At the delight beginning to dawn underneath it. At this gorgeous, brilliant, effervescent creature who could possibly want to be myanythingas much as I want her to be mine. My everything.
“Details matter, love,” I murmur.
She squints, and I can see her trying to pull up the memory from the night before. “Do they?” she asks, something playful entering her voice. “I feel like I’ve heard that before.”
“You have.”
The playfulness softens into something more serious then. Something that tells me she’s been carrying that half-memory all morning, not quite trusting it.
“So I didn’t imagine it,” she says.
“No.”
She exhales. Long and slow and trembling. Like she’s been holding that breath since she woke up on the bathroom floor.
