Page 72 of Falling Off Script

I dreamed of losing it, and liking it.

Instead, I step forward.

Barely.

A shift of weight.

A surrender you could miss if you weren’t looking.

But he sees it.

He doesn’t pounce. That’s not his style.

He waits. Lets me walk the last few inches on my own—like he’s giving me all the control while knowing I have none left.

When I reach him, my hand lifts before I can stop it.

I touch his jaw—just lightly, like I need to make sure he’s real.

He’s warm. Solid. Here.

And when I don’t pull back, he moves. Slowly. Deliberately.

His hand finds my waist—light pressure, just enough to let me feel the outline of choice.

He leans in like he’s asking a question with his mouth, not his words.

And I—

I tilt up.

Answering.

I feel the moment our lips touch like an electric shock beneath my skin. His mouth is warm, confident, unhurried. He kisses me like he has all the time in the world. Like he knows he’s been kissing me in dreams for weeks and wants to make sure I notice the difference.

I do.

I notice everything.

The way he doesn’t grab. The way he holds. The restraint in his fingertips. The tension wound so tightly in his body it makes me ache.

When he pulls back, just enough to breathe, I don’t move.

I’m afraid if I open my mouth, I’ll ask him to ruin me.

“Is this the part where you stop me?” he murmurs.

And this time, I do say something.

“Don’t stop.”

That’s it.

That’s the thread pulled.

He kisses me again, harder. His hand slides under my tank top, his palm hot against my bare skin. I arch toward him like I’m being pulled, like there’s nothing else—no commentary, no control, no public opposition—just this.

Just him.

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