HARRISON
But it’s not the bad kind of drowning—not the kind where you’re slipping under with no way back. This is something slower. Heavier. The kind where you realize you’ve already gone too deep to pretend you’re still safe.
She tastes like peppermint and coffee. Her fingers tighten in the hair at the nape of my neck, and I press a hand to the small of her back, holding her to me like I can make this moment last longer just by wanting it hard enough.
Her hips shift. Tentative. Questioning. I groan against her mouth. Can’t help it. She breaks the kiss first, eyes searching mine. “I don’t want to be a mistake.”
“You never could be.”
She rests her forehead against mine. “I feel like I’m floating and anchored all at once.”
“I know the feeling. Ever since the elevator.”
Her lips brush
