“I want what you want,” I whisper, barely able to speak.
He frowns slightly. “No. That’s not how this works. I know what I want. I want you. I want this. But I need to hear it from you.”
I feel like my heart is going to explode. “Okay,” I whisper.
“Okay?” he teases gently, raising an eyebrow.
I take a breath. “Okay, then I want you to be my boyfriend.”
His eyes soften. A small smile curves his mouth. “Okay.”
I stare at him. “That’s it? Just ‘okay’?”
He chuckles. “Would you prefer I get on one knee with a bouquet?”
I grin. “I wouldn’t mind.”
“Too late now,” he murmurs.
I laugh. And then—on impulse, driven by emotion and whatever chaotic hormone cocktail is swirling in my system—I lean in and kiss him.
He stills for a second, just a second—long enough for my breath to hitch, for doubt to whisper in the corner of my mind—but then his hand lifts, fingers brushing gently against the side of my face, anchoring me. His lips move against mine slowly, with a kind of deliberate tenderness that makes the world blur around us.
It’s not rushed. Not the kind of kiss I thought it might be, full of heat and urgency and pent-up longing from all these weeks. It’s softer. Deeper. Like he’s pouring everything he doesn’t know how to say into the press of his mouth against mine.
And it’s nothing like I’ve imagined. It's better. Because it's real.
His other hand finds the small of my back, pulling me just a little closer. My hands—nervous and unsure—rest against his chest, fingers fisting the fabric of his t-shirt as if I need something to hold onto to remind myself this is happening. That I’m here. That he’s here.
I feel the warmth of him seep into me. I feel the steadiness of his heartbeat beneath my palm. I feel everything—too much, maybe—and yet not enough.
There’s a kind of reverence in the way he kisses me, like he’s been waiting for this moment for a long time and wants to get it exactly right. It melts something tight and fearful in me. The part that always expects someone to pull away. To leave. To love me in halves.
But he’s not pulling away.
His thumb brushes across my cheek, and he tilts his head just a little more, deepening the kiss by a fraction, but it’s enough to send a shiver down my spine. My eyes flutter shut. The world falls away—the city noise outside, the scent of old books on the shelf, and the faint hum of the refrigerator in the background.
It's just this.
Us.
His breath mingling with mine.
My skin is tingling from every point we touch.
When we finally part, it’s slow. Reluctant. His lips hover near mine for a moment like he doesn’t want to let go, and I know exactly how he feels because neither do I.
I open my eyes and find him looking at me the same way he did that night in Jaipur when I found him sick and shivering—like I’m something he’s afraid to break, something he never thought he could have.
I smile, a little dazed. “Wow.”
He laughs softly, forehead resting against mine. “Yeah?”
“I didn’t know someone could kiss like that,” I murmur, my voice hushed, almost reverent.
His smirk grows, a flicker of pride in his eyes. “Neither did I.”
I breathe out a laugh, dizzy with warmth and affection. “Do you… want to try again?”
