Another detonation cracks open the dark. This one louder. The crowd gasps and laughs in the same breath.
Daniel’s eyes flick shut for half a second.
Melanie leans in, her mouth brushing near his ear. I can’t hear what she says, but I see the effect of it. His shoulders lower. The tension drains from his neck. He inhales and this time the breath goes all the way down.
The sky fractures into gold.
He turns toward her fully now.
And whatever she sees in his face makes her soften.
He cups the side of her face like it’s something fragile. She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t glance around. She leans into the touch as if she’s been waiting for it.
His hand slides from her jaw to her waist and draws her in closer, slow and certain. She goes without hesitation. Her fingers bunch in the front of his shirt, knuckles whitening against the fabric as if she needs something solid to hold.
Another burst tears the sky open, white this time, bright enough to wash the street in stark light. For a second their shadows stretch long behind them, fused into one dark shape on the pavement.
He doesn’t break the kiss when the next boom rolls in. His mouth moves with measured pressure, not hungry, not careless. He tilts his head slightly, deepening it by degrees, like he’s relearning the shape of her mouth.
She exhales into him.
It isn’t loud. It isn’t theatrical.
It’s the sound a body makes when it stops bracing.
My throat tightens.
Smoke drifts low between us and the crowd, sharp and metallic, tinged with salt from the water. The air is warm, heavy, vibrating faintly from the repeated concussions. I’ve stood in thicker smoke than this. I’ve watched ceilings collapse. I’ve dragged men out by their collars.
This shouldn’t feel dangerous.
But something low in my gut pulls tight anyway.
He shifts his grip, fingers spreading at her hip. She angles into him, her body aligning instinctively, like she knows exactly where he means her to stand.
There’s nothing tentative about them now.
The crowd whistles at the sky. Someone shouts. A child laughs too loudly.
They don’t notice.
Her hand slides up from his chest to his shoulder, fingers curling over the muscle there. His shoulders, which had been drawn tight all evening, finally drop. The tension drains out of him in visible increments.
Melanie pulls back first, breathless. Daniel rests his forehead briefly against hers.
She’s watching his face when they part for air.
Not the fireworks.
Not the crowd.
Him.
He keeps his hand at her waist even as their mouths separate, thumb pressing once into her side as if to confirm she’s still there.
My pulse kicks harder than it should.
I tell myself it’s the noise. The smoke. The way the finale always rattles through the street like distant artillery.
