Kyra***
The opening credits rolled and that piano melody hit me instantly. My fingers found the seam of Zaire’s hoodie without me even thinking about it, tracing it like it was part of the song.
“You know,” I said, my voice already lazy and warm, “this soundtrack had a chokehold on an entire generation.”
I felt his chest shake under my cheek when he chuckled. “I can tell. You’re one sad montage away from full emotional collapse.”
“Excuse you, this movie is art,” I shot back, tipping my head to look up at him. “Bella staring out the window for months while seasons change? Cinema.”
“That was depression with a budget,” he said, but his hand was already sliding up and down my back, slow, grounding. No bite in his words at all.
We went quiet after that. Comfortable quiet. But when Edward
