The memory of Julian’s mouth on mine kept replaying like a secret I couldn’t smother. Even now, under the muted silver wash of moonlight, I could feel the heat of it — that brief, daring press of lips that had taken me by surprise and then turned the world into a small, private thing where only the two of us existed for a breath. I’d told myself afterward it was nothing, that it had been a mistake, that I’d been weak. But the truth was quieter, and much harder to admit: I had loved the way it made me feel. Loved it the way one loves something dangerous and beautiful, even when every sensible part of you pulls away.
First it had been Julian trying to crash his lips against mine. The taste of whiskey and something like copper had faded from that instant, leaving a softness I hadn’t expected
