The moment stretched taut as a wire, everything narrowing down to the space between them, to the way her breath ghosted across his lips. Later, Jim wouldn't be able to say who moved first—maybe they both did, drawn together like magnets finally giving in to their nature. His mouth found hers in the grey morning light, and for one perfect moment, everything made sense.
She tasted like mint and sleep and something indefinably Rory, her lips soft and warm against his. His hand slid into her hair, black curls twining around his fingers like they belonged there. The small sound she made in the back of her throat undid him completely, and suddenly the kiss wasn't gentle anymore. It was teeth and tongue and years of wanting, of almost-having, of dreams that weren't his but felt like they were.
