Something deep in my chest ignites, roars awake.A primal, gut-wrenchingYES.
Yes,finally.
Yes, we’re doing this.
The realization slams through me, and suddenly, I can’t just stand here like a fucking idiot.I have to kiss her back.
I tilt my head, deepening it, taking control now that I know she’s giving in.My hands move—not to hold her back, but to hold her close.Tokeepher close.Because now that I have her, there’s no fucking way I’m letting go.
I twist my fingers through her hair, pulling her flush against me.
Her body melts, then tenses, then melts again, like she doesn’t know if she’s supposed to fight it or let it devour her.
The second she gasps against my mouth, I take the opening—deepening, demanding, fucking losing myself in her.
She presses closer, her hands sliding up my chest, and I swear to God—I’ve never felt anything like this.Never like her.
If we weren’t in the middle of a goddamn school?—
She pulls me closer, like she doesn’t know how to stop, either.
I tilt my head, deepening everything, tasting her frustration, her surrender, her fucking fire.
And when she whimpers against my mouth?
It wrecks me.
Because this isn’t just anger or frustration or history combusting into a kiss.
This is relief.
It’s inevitable.
It’s every stolen glance, every late-night argument, every moment we spent trying to convince ourselves this didn’t mean something.
And fuck, I’m gone.So fucking gone.
The hallway, the party, the years of pushing and pulling and pretending—all of it fades.
There’s just this.
Me.Her.
And the truth we can’t run from anymore.
When she finally pulls back, she doesn’t move far.Not that I would let her.
Her lips are kiss-swollen, her breath uneven.
I don’t let go.
Not yet.
Her hands are still clutching onto my hanbok, like she doesn’t realize she hasn’t let go.
My forehead drops to hers, both of us still breathing too hard, too uneven.
“So, that happened,” I whisper, not even meaning to say it out loud.