POV: Florence
I leaned against the side wall of the club, brick cold through the thin fabric of my dress, trying to talk my heartbeat back down to something reasonable. I wasn't drunk enough for any of it to blur. That was the problem. Every second of that kiss stayed sharp and clear in my head, high-definition, replaying on a loop I couldn't shut off, leaving me thoroughly confused and completely flustered. My fingers kept drifting to my lips, like they were checking whether the memory had left some physical mark behind, some bruise only I could feel.
It came out of nowhere. And I hated how much I hadn't hated it.
Loved it, actually, if I was being honest with myself, which I really didn't want to be right now, not standing outside a club in five-inch heels with my pulse still doing so
