Page 137 of Fake it ’Til Fall

That does it.

I bend.

The first touch of my mouth to hers is not hard.

It should be. I want it to be. I want to kiss her like every hour of restraint has been building toward this exact failure.

I kiss her carefully.

For about one second.

Then Daisy makes a small sound against my mouth, half surprise, half relief, and careful stops being enough.

Her hands come to my shirt, fingers catching in the fabric.

Not pulling.

Holding.

Like she needs proof I’m here. I move closer.

The kiss changes.

Her mouth opens under mine, and the first touch of her tongue against mine wrecks whatever discipline I thought I had left.

Fuck.

It is not tentative after that.

Daisy makes a small sound, soft and startled, and I feel it everywhere. In my hands. In my ribs. In the part of me that has been pretending this was strategy, pretending she was a problem to solve instead of a woman I’ve been wanting in slow, dangerous increments since she first looked at me like she could read the damage and still argue with it.

I kiss her deeper.

Her fingers tighten in my shirt, and I answer by sliding one hand to the back of her neck, thumb brushing the line of her jaw. Not holding her still. Not trapping her. Just keeping us both close enough that neither of us can pretend this is accidental.

She tastes like rain and sugar and the little bit of coffee she drank downstairs because she claimed cider made her “too seasonally vulnerable.” She kisses like she talks, too much feeling under too much control, a soft push followed by a braver one, a quiet dare, a breathless little surrender she’ll probably deny if I mention it later.

Then she kisses me back harder.

That is what does it.

Not the bed behind her. Not the storm against the window. Not the fact that we are standing in her childhood bedroom with ten fake-dating rules lying somewhere between us like a joke that stopped being funny.

It’s Daisy choosing it.

Choosing me.

Her tongue slides against mine again, and every thought I have about distance, exits, rules, and self-preservation leaves the room without looking back.

I slide my hand into her hair, careful enough not to scare her, selfish enough not to stop.

Not enough to trap her.

Enough to ask her to stay.

She does.

For one dangerous second, she presses closer, and I feel the shape of her against me, the tired breath in her ribs, the way her body decides before her pride can object.