CHAPTER forty-three #2
It's a chaste kiss, but it feels anything but innocent — a slow burn that starts in my gut and spreads like wildfire, dangerous and addicting.
When I pull back, barely an inch, we're still caught there — breathing the same air, her breath shallow and shaky against my mouth. My forehead presses to hers, both of us trembling just enough to feel it.
Her lashes flutter, eyes glassy, and I can feel the ghost of her lips still burning on mine.
And fuck, I want more. So much more.
Every instinct in me is screaming to close the gap again — to taste her, to drown in this — but I stay still. Just watching her, memorizing her, burning the moment into memory before I lose it.
I'm about to say something—God knows what—when she moves.
Slow. Dazed. Like she's caught between thought and instinct.
Her arms slide up, looping around my neck, and before my brain can catch up, she's pulling me down to her. Her eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown wide, and then her mouth finds mine.
This kiss isn't soft. It's fire meeting gasoline.
Her mouth moves against mine with a kind of desperate rhythm that rips the air right out of my lungs. Her lips are warm and sweet, tasting faintly like berries and adrenaline and every dream I've ever had about her.
My hands find her waist, fingers pressing into the soft fabric of her top as I drag her closer—closer—until she's flush against me. Her heartbeat drums wild against my chest, syncing with mine in this feverish, reckless beat that feels more like a confession than any words we've ever said.
Her breath mingles with mine, uneven and fast. The world is noise and color somewhere far away, but right here—right now—it's just this: her lips moving with mine, her fingers threading through my hair, the faint taste of sweetness and sin that makes me dizzy.
It's wild and messy and perfect.
I don't even know where she ends and I begin.
All I know is that she's real, she's here, and kissing her feels like resurrection—like I've been underwater for years and finally broke the surface, lungs burning, desperate for air.
When she finally pulls back, her lips are swollen, her eyes dazed, and I swear my heart forgets how to beat altogether.
For a second, I just stand there—completely wrecked.
My lungs forget how to function, my knees feel like wet noodles, and my brain? Gone. Full system reboot.
Holy hell, did that really just happen?
I half-expect her to step back, maybe regret it—but then she looks up at me, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, and smiles. Not the polite kind. The real one. The one that makes the rest of the world blur.
"I think..." she says, voice small but sure, "I think I like kissing you."
And just like that, I'm done for.
I've never done drugs, but if euphoria had a flavor, it'd taste exactly like this moment—like her breath still ghosting on my lips, like sunlight bottled in human form. I'm dizzy, grinning so wide it hurts, and I swear I could sprint laps around the rink right now.
I dip my head again, unable to help myself, and press a quick, gentle kiss to her lips—soft, sweet, and over too soon.
"Good," I murmur, my voice rough with a grin tugging at it. "'Cause I think I'm already addicted to yours, sugarplum."
Her laugh bubbles out—quiet, breathy, beautiful—and my heart just... flips.
Yeah. I'm screwed. The happy kind of screwed.
CHAPTER thirty-six
CAROLINE
It's been over two weeks since Zach and I kissed—well, if you can even call that a kiss.
It was more like we tried to inhale each other's souls through the mouth. In public.
Seriously, that has to be the wildest thing I've ever done in my life—and I once let Sam convince me to ride a mechanical bull after two cans of Red Bull.
Anyway, that night is forever tattooed in my brain, and every time I think about it, I still... gush. Like, full-on blushy, leg-kicking, hide-my-face-with-a-pillow level of embarrassment and joy all rolled into one.
We've kissed a few more times since then—each one slower, softer, sweeter. And don't get me wrong, they're amazing. But none of them were as wild as that first one. It's like Zach's decided to play the role of a gentleman now, all patient and tender...
Meanwhile, I'm over here thinking, Zach, stop being a gentleman and just take me!
Then I mentally slap myself.
Caroline, what the hell? Pull it together, woman.
It's gotten worse lately. Like, embarrassingly worse. It's as if that one kiss rewired my brain, hit the reset button on my self-control, and now it's permanently stuck on "I want him to kiss me like it's an Olympic sport and I'm going for gold" mode.
It's bad. Like, if kissing him were a drug, I'd be in rehab by now. The man's lips are basically my new religion.
But, of course, I can't exactly say that. I don't want to come off as clingy or make it obvious how much I'm craving him. Especially since—plot twist—we haven't even officially put a label on whatever this is.
Almost three weeks.
Three very kiss-filled, heart-fluttering, label-less weeks.
And I want to slam my head against a wall every time I remember I was the one who told him not to call me his girl and that we're not together.
What kind of idiot move was that?
But he did say we didn't have to label anything yet if I wasn't ready—because apparently, we've always "known what we are" from the start.
Which sounds romantic and all... until I realized "what we are" doesn't come with official permission for unlimited make-out sessions.
If we had that label—if he were officially my boyfriend—then I could stop second-guessing everything. I could kiss him whenever, wherever, however I want without my brain screaming is this too much? is this allowed?
But the problem is... I have no idea how to start that conversation. How do you casually say, "Hey, so, can I be your girlfriend so I can legally climb you like a tree?"
A small, logical part of my brain chimes in—Caroline, it's 2025. Women don't wait for the guy to ask anymore. Be bold. Be modern. Be the change.
Yeah, well, tell that to my 1950s-coded panic every time I even think about asking him. Because I know exactly how it'd go,
I'd open my mouth to say "Will you be my boyfriend?" and somehow it'd come out as "Will you—uh—pass the salt?"
Modern woman my ass.
I let out a long, dramatic sigh.
"I guess I'll just have to wait for him to officially ask me to be his girlfriend," I mumble, staring at the ceiling like it personally offended me. "But when will that be, dammit?"
If patience is a virtue, then I'm about three business days away from losing mine permanently.
My alarm goes off, slicing through my overthinking session with that obnoxious default ringtone that could wake the dead.
I grab my phone from the nightstand and smack the screen to shut it up. Two p.m. Great. I set it so I wouldn't accidentally nap through the afternoon, but apparently, daydreaming about my nonexistent relationship title counts as rest now.
Rehearsal's in half an hour. I don't need to do much else—I already showered and got ready an hour ago. I've just been lying here, staring at the ceiling, waiting for time to move faster.
With a groan, I finally get up. My body instantly protests, heavy from all the back-to-back rehearsals—drama, dance, rinse, repeat. Every muscle feels like it's been personally betrayed.
But hey, I wanted this role. I fought for it.
So no complaining.
I inhale deeply, square my shoulders, and exhale through my nose like I'm about to go to war instead of rehearsal. "Come on, Caroline," I mutter to myself. "Stars don't whine, they shine."
Grabbing my bag, I head out the door—aching, tired, but still moving.
The Mainstage Rehearsal Hall hums with the kind of chaos that only happens when everyone's running on caffeine, adrenaline, and the fear of Professor Callahan.
The air is thick with the smell of sweat, paint, and stress.
Two hours in, and we're still trying to perfect the blocking for the fight scene. You'd think after four weeks we'd have figured out how to not stab each other with prop swords—but apparently not.
Onstage, I'm standing opposite Marcus, who's decked out in his Mouse King armor—foam sword raised, cape slightly crooked—while Adam, our valiant Nutcracker, adjusts his fake crown like he's regretting all his life choices that led him here.
Around us, half the class plays the Mouse King's army and the other half acts as royal guards. There's a lot of tripping, shouting, and fake dying.
Down front, Professor Callahan stands with her clipboard, the unspoken ruler of this tiny kingdom.
Beside her, Lucy, Katie, and a few others who don't have parts in this scene are slouched in the front row seats, whispering between notes.
"Stop, stop, stop!" Callahan's voice slices through the chaos.
"Caroline—your stance. You're turning too far upstage. The audience can't see your face."
I lower my prop sword, panting. "If I twirl this thing one more time, I'm going to stab myself instead of the Mouse King."
Adam chuckles beside me, voice low enough for only me to hear. "Please don't. I'm still recovering from your accidental jab last week."
I roll my eyes. "You didn't even bleed that much."
"Eyes front!" Professor Callahan barks, smacking her pen against the clipboard. "Let's go again. Marcus, when you lunge, give Clara space. You're crowding her mark."
Marcus, ever the drama king, salutes her with his sword. "Got it, Professor."
We reset. The mouse army shuffles into formation, tails bouncing. The royal guards line up opposite them, gripping their prop spears like it's a real war instead of a Monday afternoon.
"Okay!" Callahan claps once. "And—action!"
Music fills the hall again, loud and triumphant. I raise my sword and step into the light, trading mock blows with Marcus as Adam spins to my side. The floorboards thud beneath our feet. Someone's shoe squeaks. My braid whips against my neck as I duck and swing.
From the seats, Katie mutters, "She's totally gonna nail him in the face one of these days."