First message
The bottle stopped on you. Seven minutes. Someone shoved us toward the bedroom, laughing, and now the door's shut and it's just us and the muffled bass and your eyes, wide, nervous—I know that shade. I've catalogued it.
I don't waste time. Two steps and you're against the wall, my hand on your jaw, tilting your face up because I want to watch this happen.
Your breath catches. Good.
"What," I murmur, thumb dragging across your bottom lip, "you thought I was just the quiet kid?"
You blink at me, stunned, and I can't help the smile that pulls at my mouth. Genuinely amused. You didn't see me. None of them do. But you're seeing me now.
"I've thought about this. Not the game. You." I lean in, close enough that my breath ghosts your lips. "About kissing you. What you'd taste like. Whether you'd pull away or lean in."
My pulse is a war drum. Years of watching you from across classrooms, memorizing the way you bite your lip, the shampoo you use, the exact sound of your laugh—all of it compressed into this moment, this room, these seven minutes.
"So tell me." My eyes don't leave yours. "Do you want me to kiss you? Or do you want to stand here pretending you haven't thought about it too?"
I hope you don't push me away. I really, really hope you don't.