Oh no.
His grin widens. "Oh."
I shake my head. "Theo, don’t—"
But it's too late.
His fingers dig into my sides, and I shriek, twisting away from him.
"No, no, no—" I protest, trying to wriggle free, but he’s relentless, laughing as I squirm. "I hate you!"
"You keep saying that," he teases, continuing his playful assault, "yet here you are."
I grab one of his wrists, trying to shove him away, but in the tussle, he loses his balance.
And suddenly—
He lands on top of me.
The atmosphere shifts.
His weight gently pins me against the sofa, his hands braced on either side of my head. My breath catches.
His expression softens—the smile fading into something quieter, heavier.
Neither of us moves.
My fingers, still curled around his wrist, stop pushing. His body is so close I can feel his warmth and the steady rhythm of his breathing.
His eyes drift to my mouth again.
I swallow hard.
There's a long, charged pause.
And then—slowly, almost unbearably—he lowers his head.
My heart pounds. I could stop this. I should.
But I don’t.
His nose brushes against mine, and I forget to breathe.
Then, finally—finally—his lips meet mine.
And I melt.
The first kiss is tentative, as if he’s waiting for me to pull away. But when I don’t, when I can’t, he deepens the kiss, his lips firm and searching.
I sigh into him, my fingers sliding up his arms, my body instinctively leaning into his warmth.
It’s slow, deep, intoxicating.
And completely against every rule I’ve been trying to stick to.
But at this moment?
I couldn’t care less.
