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I wait five minutes.

On purpose. I read the paragraph about anchoring a fifth time. I still don’t know what it says.

Then I go.

His door is open. He’s standing by the window with his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, and he turns around when I come in and doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me.

I come in.

He crosses the room behind me. I hear the door close. I hear the lock turn.

Last night, I locked it. Today, he does.

There’s a kind of low, warm pulling in my stomach that makes my hands want something to do.

I turn around.

He’s standing with his back against the door a few feet from me.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

And I kiss him.

I don’t wait for him to cross the room. I cross it. And this time I don’t miss. This time I get it right on the first try, my hands on his face again, up on my toes, and he catches me at the waist and kisses me back like he’s been standing at that window for an hour, waiting.

It’s easier. That’s the strange thing. Last night every second of it felt like walking on ice. This feels like something we already know how to do. We’re both less careful. I laugh against his mouth once, at nothing, at the fact of it, and he pulls back a quarter-inch and looks at me like I’ve lost my mind and then kisses me again before I can explain.

I’m learning fast. I can feel myself learning. Where to put my hands. How to tip my head. What happens to his breathing when I go up on my toes and press closer. What happens when I put my fingers in the hair at the back of his neck and pull a little.

He makes a sound. Low. Right against my mouth.

And I like it.

I like it so much it surprises me. Four years, I was the one things happened to. Four years, I was the one whose body went still when he walked into a room. And now he’s standing in his locked bedroom on Christmas Eve with his hands on my waist, and I did that. I made that sound come out of him.

I do it again, just to see.

His hands tighten on my waist. Not hard. Just more. His mouth goes down, off my mouth, along my jaw, slow, to my neck. And he stops there, with his mouth just touching my skin.

Waiting.

I tip my head to the side.

He breathes out against my neck, and kisses it, once, so gently it’s barely there.

I hold onto him with both hands.

Every time he gives me room, I take it and close it. Every time he pulls back to look at me, to check, I go after him. He starts to step away, once, to give me space, his hands loosening, and I put my hand flat on his chest over his heart and pull him back, and he looks down at me, and his eyes are so dark they’re almost black.

“Tess,” he says.

A question. Again. Always.

I answer it by kissing him harder.

And something gives.