Chapter 36 #2
“Your idiot, apparently,” I say, then immediately want to disappear into another realm. “I mean… not that you… we haven’t… fuck… I—”
She’s definitely fighting a smile now, and it shuts me up and brings my own goofy smile to the party.
We lapse into silence again, but it’s different now.
Charged. The sun is getting lower, painting everything in deeper golds, and I know we can’t avoid the library-shaped elephant sitting between us anymore.
“The library was…” I start, then stop, searching for words that aren’t jokes or escape routes.
“A disaster,” she finishes, but there’s wry humor in her voice. “Though we did get your paper done.”
“And then you ran.” No accusation, just fact. Like “the sky is blue” or “Galloway is Satan’s least favorite nephew.”
She’s quiet long enough that I start to worry I’ve already fucked it up, but then she finally speaks.
“I did," she says, her voice a whisper. "It’s what I do when things feel too real and when I start to feel things I can’t control. I run like the Flash, but with more emotional damage and better hair.”
The honesty of it, the admission wrapped in just enough humor to make it bearable for her, makes me want to reach for her. But I don’t. Not yet. Because when that moment comes, if it comes, I want her to choose it, in the vain hope that touching won't lead to her fleeing once again.
“You running away sent me into complete panic mode,” I say, matching her honesty. “Remember those old cartoons where the robot gets confused and then starts smoking before it explodes? That was my brain."
She turns to look at me, something almost soft in her expression, and then she reaches out to grab my hand, her calloused fingers interlacing with mine, and damn if this isn't the single best moment of my life.
“I pushed you away and created the exact condition that would make you spiral," she says.
I nod. “The gala was stupid and selfish. I was panicking and defaulting to making noise, being the hero, and fixing the silence. I—”
"James," she says.
"—I'm really sorry. I only wanted to help by getting you the resources—"
"Rook," she says.
Her use of my nickname snaps me out of it, and we look at each other, really look, and suddenly we’re both laughing. Not loud or performative, but genuine, rueful laughter at our own predictable disasters, and how we've spent the last few months giving and taking emotional body blows.
“We’re kind of a mess, aren’t we?” she says. “I run, you chase. I go silent, you get loud. We’re like broken clockwork.”
“Perfectly mistimed,” I agree, shifting slightly closer, testing the waters. “Though you know what’s funny?”
“What?” Her voice catches slightly, and I catch her eyes dropping to my mouth, even as her knee still touches mine and her hand remains entwined with mine.
“We’re so predictable," I laugh.
“Doing the same thing and expecting different results,” she recites.
We’re both grinning now, and I’m struck by how easy this is when we’re not performing or defending. We just… fit. And, as if to illustrate it, she shifts closer and snuggles her torso against mine, close enough that I can count the freckles across her nose.
“Right," I say. “So maybe we try something different.”
Her eyes search mine, pupils dark and wide. “Like what?”
I lean in slowly, telegraphing every movement, giving her every chance to run.
But she doesn’t.
She meets me halfway.
Her eyes close as I get near, dark lashes against her cheeks, and when my lips finally touch hers, it’s nothing like our other kisses.
Not angry collision or desperate combustion.
It's soft and careful and tender, a question asked quietly and answered gently, an invitation into previously locked-away lands.
Her lips are warm under mine and when she sighs into the kiss, I feel it everywhere—chest, stomach, fingertips. I cup her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone, feeling silk-soft skin, and she leans into the touch like she’s been starving for gentleness.
The kiss deepens without desperation. It stays intentional, like we have all the time in a world. Her tongue touches mine, exploring. My other hand finds her waist, fingers spreading across warm cotton, feeling the firm muscle underneath, the perfect curve of her.
When she threads her fingers through my hair, nails scraping lightly against my scalp, the sound I make should be embarrassing, but I’m beyond caring. And, in response to my moan/groan, I feel her smile against my lips, which makes me want to make it all over again.
The kiss breaks naturally, neither of us pulling away sharply. Our foreheads rest together, and we just breathe, sharing the same small space. My hand stays on her cheek, my thumb tracing the faint smattering of freckles there, and her hand stays tangled in my hair.
“That was definitely different,” she whispers against my lips, her voice warm and a little breathless. "You quiet, and me not running or putting up walls…"
“Well, let's make it routine,” I whisper back, then lean in to kiss her again, because the only thing I want to be predictable about right now is this.