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TwentyYeah, if the MCU Ever Allowed Hot Snogging
The good news was: peopledefinitelyseemed more impressed by their second kiss than they had been by their first. In fact, it was voted Best Use of Tongue in a Twitter poll about Alfie’s various doorstep snogs over the years.I honestly had to make sure you definitely can’t get pregnant just by looking at a picture, one person said.
But the bad news was: literally everything else about it.
Starting with the fact that she had fucking loved it, that it had been the best kiss of her life, that she had come incredibly close to dragging him back for more like a complete saddo. And ending with the certain knowledge that he had not experienced anything of the kind. To him, it had been the equivalent of doing his fucking laundry. He’d pulled away like he’d just finished folding and now got to have a nice sit down. Even though this was all the opposite of what she’d intended.
She’d wanted him to feel good about this.
And instead, she’d briefly become one of his stans.
Next thing she knew she was gonna be contacting him via the astral plane.
It was maddening, utterly maddening. She didn’t even know what to make of it.You were just coming off a kiss drought, she told herself. But that didn’t feel wholly convincing. Nor did the idea that he’d shocked her into it, with all that sudden tongue action. So where did that leave her?
She didn’t know.
It made no sense.
The only thing she could think was:He’s just that good at kissing.
But even that didn’t really help her. Because now she had to be around him, while knowing that he was. And she felt pretty sure that this knowledge was going to show on her face at some point.You’re going to look at him and think about his incredible tongue-kissing skills, and when you do your eyes will light up like a pinball machine, her brain informed her. Then even more horrible, it added:and he’ll know why. He will guess that you’re massively into it.
At which point, all she could do was pray.
Please, Alfie, just do not ever guess, she thought at him as she climbed into the car for their latest date. And to her relief, it did actually seem like he might not. Or at least, like he hadn’t so far. He was just his usual self: occasionally annoyed, often indignant about something she’d said, and frequently hilarious.
Not to mention just as fussy as he’d said he would be. He smoothed down the collar of her dress before she even knew it was sticking up. And when her wrap slid off her shoulders, he stopped it from hitting the ground. He slid it back on for her.
All of which was good for easing her mind on thedoes he know I liked kissing himfront. But maybe not quite as good at preventing her from ever liking it again. Because try as she might, she couldn’t quite tell herself that she wasn’t now enjoying him touching her just a little bit more than she had.
And she was already sure that she’d enjoyed it to a greater extent than she’d maybe thought. Or ever let herself admit. Though really, could anyone fault her for that?When no man has ever made you feel good it hits you hard the moment one does, she told herself. Yet somehow it didn’t seem to help. She just felt unsettled and strange and like she should be even more cautious than she had been before.
Even though now, of course, they were in a situation where she couldn’t be cautious at all. She’d gone for it once. She couldn’t suddenlynotgo for it a second time. Not even when he said the following words, as they were leaving yet anotherfancy restaurant:I was thinking, since this is technically our third date, that we should probably kiss like something is going to happen. Like maybe I’m coming in with you for more than tea and crumpets if you catch my drift.
And Lord, did she ever want to put the brakes on, then.
Her first instinct was to sayOh dear god no.
But what would he think if she did?
He might guess the reason why.
Though even if he didn’t, the other options were not exactly palatable. She didn’t want him to think she was terrified again. And especially not when they were making all this progress. A few more of these things, a little more work on his book, and she could safely suggest a phony breakup.
At which point, they would be in the clear.
They could pretend they were going to be just good friends.
Then actuallybejust good friends—or so she hoped.
Because that was the other thing:
She didn’t want to just let him go, after all this. She wanted to see him, even after his memoir was all done. And to get to that, they had to go through this. Despite how much this was making her squirm and scream into her pillow at night and kind of want to throw herself out of the nearest window.
So she decided, right then:
She was going to be cool.
