It was impossible to think straight while she was looking at him like that, and he was almost certain she knew it. She was playing coy, and knowing that did not provide him any relief or stop his breath from quickening. He couldn't come up with a coherent answer to her question, his attention instead distracted by her blue eyes, the thousands of freckles that dusted her cheeks and nose, and the way her teeth dug into her lip. His hummed a non-answer through closed lips as untangled one hand from hers and lifted it up to her cheek, his thumb following the line of freckles down to her jawline.
And then, unable to contain the butterflies in his stomach any longer, he bent down and pressed his lips to hers—clumsily, imprecisely, and a little too rough. His eyes fluttered shut and his other hand came up to wrap around the back of her neck. The warmth from his cheeks shot down his chest and through his limbs, and all he could think was he was kissing Sloane. After two years of close friendship, one year of fighting, a summer of misadventures, and a brief period of awkwardness earlier that month, he was kissing her and she (hopefully) was not about to smack him for it.
And then, unable to contain the butterflies in his stomach any longer, he bent down and pressed his lips to hers—clumsily, imprecisely, and a little too rough. His eyes fluttered shut and his other hand came up to wrap around the back of her neck. The warmth from his cheeks shot down his chest and through his limbs, and all he could think was he was kissing Sloane. After two years of close friendship, one year of fighting, a summer of misadventures, and a brief period of awkwardness earlier that month, he was kissing her and she (hopefully) was not about to smack him for it.
