Not in volume.
In weight.
I look at everything except Mark’s face.
At the coffee cup hanging forgotten in his hand.
At the tight set of his shoulders.
And decide, with the full maturity of a forty-two-year-old professional man, that I would rather set myself on fire than have a feelings conversation before breakfast settles.
No.
Absolutely not.
I push off the stool.
Mark turns slightly at the movement.
I walk straight over, take the mug from his hand, set it down on the counter behind him, and kiss him.
He inhales sharply.
Then his handsare on me.
One at my waist.
One flattening against my back.
Pulling me in.
Yes.
Much better.
I kiss him harder, slow enough to feel him respond, deep enough to drag him out of his own head.
Mark makes a low sound into my mouth that does deeply irresponsible things to my nervous system.
When I pull back, it is only just enough to breathe.
“We are not doing departure maths before ten in the morning,” I murmur.
His forehead rests briefly against mine.
“That an official ruling?”
“Yes.”
“Based on what authority?”
“I’m an editor. I control pacing.”
That gets the ghost of a smile.
Good.
Progress.
