Chapter Twenty-Two Non-Binding Oral Confusion
Linda
THE KISS WRECKED her.
Like, brain-empty, pulse-screaming, knees-a-little-weak wrecked. Not that she said any of that. Obviously. She couldn’t. Not after he’d kissed her forehead like she was his world.
Nope. Linda did what any emotionally unstable, fake-engaged woman with a minor honesty allergy would do: she laughed in Rhys’s face, called him a menace, made a vague threat about arson, and power-walked back into the party like her insides weren’t doing the Macarena at Mach 3 .
But the next morning?
She sat on her couch in sweatpants, clutching a croissant she didn’t remember buying, staring at the ceiling like it owed her emotional back pay. Sir Stumps-a-Lot was perched on her chest, warm and judging.
“You saw it,” she muttered.
The corgi blinked once.
“Don’t judge me. It was a fake kiss. He doesn’t even like—women. I mean, probably. Right? I mean, he kissed like he does. But that doesn’t mean anything.”
Another blink. Pure skepticism. Possibly a sigh.
“You licked his face afterward,” she pointed out. “I’m not the emotionally compromised one here.”
He sneezed and then farted. She took it personally.
Then the door buzzed.
Linda froze.
“If that’s a bouquet of apology roses,” she muttered, “I will set them on fire and use the ashes as contour.”
But it wasn’t flowers.
It was Rhys.
With pancakes.
And a very specific look on his face—the kind that said we need to talk and also I remember how you tasted .
Linda panicked. Immediately.
“Before you say anything,” she blurted, stepping back so quickly she tripped over Sir Stumps, “I would just like to state for the record that the kiss was a misfire.”
Rhys stared at her. “A misfire.”
“Like an emotional sneeze. A non-binding, fifteen-second—”
He raised an eyebrow. “It lasted fifteen seconds?”
“I counted for damage control! ”
He stepped inside, quiet. Calm. Too calm. Her brain short-circuited at the way his shirt clung in just the right places, sleeves rolled to the elbow like some kind of slow-burn emotional nightmare. He didn't even touch her—and still she felt it. Just looked at her with those stupid eyes that made her feel like maybe the ocean wasn’t so scary if she drowned with him.
“I wasn’t pretending,” he said softly.
Linda stopped breathing.
“You said this was all fake,” he continued. “But it’s not. Not for me.”
Sir Stumps-a-Lot gave an offended grunt and exited the room like even he couldn’t watch two people emotionally combust this slowly .
“Because I don’t know how to handle sincerity! Or people touching me like they mean it! Or— whatever this is! I still have trust issues with my toaster! ”
He took one slow step forward. No touching. Just proximity. Just enough to make her pulse forget how to behave.
“You don’t have to be perfect,” he murmured. “You just have to be you. ”
That did it.
Her heart pulled the fire alarm and leapt out of her ribcage.
“I’m scared,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“And this was supposed to be pretend.”
“I know that too.”
Her knees actually wobbled. Wobbled . Like she was in a melodramatic 90s soap opera.
Another step. Another breath. Another heartbeat she couldn’t control.
“But, Linda,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “I’ve never faked the way I feel about you.”
He reached for her hand—not fast, not greedy—just… offered. Like she could take it or leave it and still be safe.
She took it .
And his thumb brushed the inside of her wrist like a secret.
“I love you,” Rhys said, low and rough and real.
Her breath caught. And then her lips were on his.
This wasn’t a mistake.
It was a surrender.
Linda kissed him like he was air she’d been denying herself for months—soft at first, like testing a bruise, then deeper, more desperate, like she was chasing the exact second she’d stopped pretending.
Rhys didn’t hesitate. He kissed her like she was a storm he wanted to be struck by.
One hand in her hair. The other pressing to the small of her back. Slow. Focused. Like he was memorizing her.
Like he knew he had to stop before he forgot how.
When he finally pulled back—just barely, just enough to breathe—his forehead pressed to hers.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Was that… still fake?”
She couldn’t think.
She couldn’t breathe .
But she managed: “I think I’ve wanted it to be real since the alarm clock caused The Collision.”
Sir Stumps barked from the hallway like finally .
Linda didn’t even look away.
“Next time,” she said, “don’t stop so fast.”
Rhys smiled against her lips. “Noted.”