Page 66 of The Final Faceoff
I swear I forget how to breathe, my chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven pulls. He hesitates for half a second, giving me a chance to move, to stop this before it becomes something we can’t take back. But I don’t move. I just stand there, locked in place, waiting for something I don’t know how to name.
Then he leans in.
It’s unbearably slow, an agonizing build that leaves me suspended in place, unable to think, unable to do anything except exist in this moment, in this sliver of time where everything is balanced on the edge of something irreversible. His breath is warm against my lips, his touch firm but careful, as if he’s holding something fragile, something he refuses to break.
And then he kisses me.
It’s not fast, not desperate. It’s careful, unhurried, deliberate in a way that makes my entire body react all at once. The brush of his lips against mine sends a shiver down my spine, a slow, melting heat pooling in my stomach, making my fingers twitch where they’ve curled into the fabric of his sweatshirt. It’s a question and an answer all at once, something lingering in the way he tilts his head, the way he lets out the smallest exhale, the way his grip tightens just slightly, like he’s afraid to let go.
For a second, I can’t move, can’t think, can’t process anything except the way he tastes, the way his mouth fits against mine like something inevitable. And then something in me gives, something that has been stretched too tight, held too long, and I kiss him back.
The second I do, his restraint frays at the edges. His hand moves to my lower back, fingers pressing into me, drawing me closer, eliminating what little space remained between us. His other hand slides into my hair, fingertips trailing over the nape of my neck in a way that makes my entire body shudder. The kiss deepens, no longer tentative, no longer just a brush of lips but something more, something real, something I feel everywhere.
I don’t know how long we stand there, tangled in something I don’t know how to define, but when we finally break apart, I don’t step back. I don’t say anything. I just look at him, and he looks at me, and I know.
Everything is different now—how are we supposed to work this out?
ChapterTwenty-Two
Leif
When This Might Be the Only Winning Shot
I am kissing her.
Why?
I don’t know, but I wish I had done it before.
Fuck no, Leif . . . I mean, is this smart?
Kissing her is the one thing I thought I’d never do, or at least wouldn’t do until I was ready. The one thing I told myself, over and over, that I couldn’t afford to lose control over. And yet—here we are.
My lips move against hers, slow at first, testing, learning. But then she pulls me closer, fingers gripping the front of my hoodie, like she’s afraid I’ll stop. Like she needs me to keep going. And that’s it. That’s all it takes for everything I’ve been holding back to come crashing down.
Her breath is warm, sweet with the lingering taste of something citrus, and I let myself sink into it—into her. This is Hailey. My Hailey, and she’s letting me have a taste of her.
I slide my hand up her spine, memorizing every dip, every soft curve. Her body molds against mine, and when she sighs into my mouth—a sound so soft, so completely unguarded—I swear I lose all sense of reality.
I press her back against the counter, one hand bracing beside her, the other curving around the side of her neck, just below her jaw. My thumb brushes her pulse, fast and erratic beneath my touch.
She feels this too. I know it in the way her body lingers, the way her breath stutters against mine. Air is useless, my lungs forgotten, every part of me consumed by her nearness. Nothing has ever felt this necessary. Then . . . everything stops, her mouth leaves mine, and there’s a sudden emptiness. She’s gone, the loss hitting me harder than it should. Her chest heaves, like she’s been running, like she’s desperate for air I can’t give her. Her gaze stays fixed somewhere else, anywhere but me.
Her fingers stay locked in my hoodie, tight, desperate—until they don’t. The slow release, the deliberate unraveling, shreds through me. Like she’s forcing herself to pull away. Like she’s already rewriting this moment as a mistake.Building walls and . . . I don’t think so.
No.
Fuck no.
She doesn’t get to do that. She doesn’t get to regret this. We are not a mistake. We are inevitable.
I step back just enough to give her space, but not enough to let her go. My hands stay where they are—one still resting at her hip, the other aching to pull her closer. Like I can keep her here. Like I can hold onto this before she finds a way to convince herself it never should have happened.
Her lips are kiss-swollen, her eyes too bright, too full of hopefully the same emotions swirling inside me. She presses her fingers against her mouth, like she can erase what just happened, like she can convince herself it was just a mistake.
She swallows hard. “We . . . we shouldn’t have done that.”
Something flares in my chest, something raw and unwilling to be brushed aside. Because fuck if I let her do it. If I let her walk out now, I will lose her. I know how her mind works.
