Page 40 of What We Become

“I can’t⁠—”

He closes the distance before I finish spiraling myself into the dashboard.

One second his hand is on my neck. The next his mouth is on mine.

I go completely still.

It is not soft. It is not tentative. It is not a question in any recognizable language. It is Holden shutting me up the only way he knows will actually work—cold mouth, hard pressure, one hand at the back of my neck and the other braced on the center console, pinning me in place without violence and with way too much of it. He tastes like coffee and hot sauce, and the kind of control that only exists because he’s using all of it right now.

My brain, helpfully, stops.

Just—stops.

No bathroom tile. No white sneaker. No metadata. No girls in folders. No Sage’s face where it doesn’t belong.

Only Holden.

My mouth opens on instinct, shock, hunger, whatever fucked-up little circuit fires all at once and decides this is a much better use of electricity.

Oh.

Oh, that’s⁠—

I make a humiliating noise into his mouth. Something halfway between a gasp and a whimper and a public admission that I have absolutely no control over my life anymore. Holden takes it as permission. His hand tightens on the back of my neck, owning the line of me for one terrible, perfect second while he kisses me harder.

This is not how I expected my nervous breakdown to go.

I grab his wrist first because I need to hold on to something and then, apparently, because I’m me, I slide my hand up his forearm and into the collar of his shirt. His stubble scratches my upper lip. My heart is trying to file assault charges against my ribcage. The whole car goes hot and small and very, very not conducive to sane decision-making.

He pulls back just enough for air.

I follow him like an idiot.

His mouth brushes mine again, voice ghosting against my lips. “I can’t lose you too,” he whispers. “Please. I need you here.”

For one stupid, suspended second, every joke I’ve ever made evaporates.

Not because I don’t have one. I do. I always do. There’s a whole line in my head about emotional support make-outs and state-sanctioned panic management and how if this is what near-death-bonding gets me, I’d like to submit a formal request for more efficient scheduling with comfortable seating.

But it all dies before it reaches my mouth.

Because Holden is looking at me like he means it. Holden, who would rather chew glass than ask for comfort straight. Holden, who treats need like a biohazard. Holden is looking at me with his mouth still damp from mine and his hand still curled around the back of my neck, and he’s not even trying to take it back.

I blink at him.

My brain, apparently deciding today is a great day to become soup, offers: He kissed you because you were having a murder panic attack.

Which, honestly, is still kind of hot.

But the thing that lands isn’t the kiss. It’s the too. The losing you too. Like he put me in the same category as Sage without thinking about it first. Like I’m in the circle of people he can’t afford to lose.

God. That does something chemical to me.

I swallow. My throat feels scraped out. “That is,” I say, voice wrecked, “a deeply unfair thing to say while actively rearranging my sexual orientation.”

He shifts back to look at me, and his face does the Holden thing where about four muscles move and the total effect is you are impossible and I am, against my better judgment, aware of that.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters.