Page 74 of Victorious: Part 2
She scrolls through the files, and I watch our journey unfold through her lens. The early shots are polished, posed, and exactly what her travel company client would want for promotional material. But as the days go on, the content changes. It becomes more candid, more real. There are shots of me laughing at something she said, of her looking thoughtful as she stares at the desert landscape, of Dracula being his chaotic self.
“See the difference?” she asks. “The first day, everything was about image management. By yesterday, it was just…us.”
She’s right.
Somewhere along the way, we stopped performing for the camera and started being ourselves.
Started being real with each other.
“The client’s going to love this,” I say, and I mean it. “It shows the authentic journey, not just posed marketing shots.”
“Who we really are,” she corrects. “This isn’t just about me anymore.”
She’s right about that too. Looking at the content, you can see the evolution of our relationship, from wary allies to something deeper, something worth documenting.
“Clover?”
“Yeah?”
“Earlier, when you asked what I wanted…”
She turns to look at me, laptop forgotten. “Yeah?”
“I want this.” I gesture between us, around the room, at the evidence of our journey spread across her computer screen. “Whatever this is that we’re building. I want to see where itgoes.”
Her smile is soft, bright, and perfect. “Even if it is complicated?”
“Especially if it’s complicated.”
She closes the laptop and sets it aside, and suddenly the space between us feels charged again. We’re alone. We’re safe. And we’re done pretending we don’t want each other.
“Phoenix?”
“Yeah?”
“Kiss me again.”
I don’t need to be asked twice.
This time, when I lean in and press my mouth to hers, it’s not just a kiss. It is a slow burn, a declaration.
Her mouth parts for me, soft and eager, and I deepen the kiss, threading one hand into her hair while the other curls around her waist, pulling her into my lap. She moves like she belongs there, as if her body already knows the rhythm of mine.
Her fingers tangle in my hair, nails grazing my scalp just enough to make me groan into her mouth. She tastes like something I never knew I was craving—sweet and addictive, with just a hint of rebellion.
I kiss her as though I need her to feel it all, the sleepless nights thinking about her, the ache in my chest every time she smiled at me like I was more than I thought I could be, the way my world shifted on its axis the moment she touched my hand in that damn diner.
She moans softly, a breathy, broken sound that shoots straight through me. I grip her tighter, my thumb stroking along her ribcage just beneath the hem of her tank. Her skin is warm and smooth, and the way she shivers under my touch nearly undoes me.
She shifts, and suddenly we’re chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat, like two magnets snapping together. Her foreheadpresses against mine, our breath mingling as we both try to catch up to what this is, what it’s becoming.
“You feel it too,” she whispers.
“I feel everything, Clo.”
I kiss her again, slower now, savoring it. The slide of her lips, the flutter of her eyelashes against my cheek, the way her body melts into mine like we were made to fit.
Time doesn’t exist here.
