He didn't kiss me like the boys before him.
There was no hesitation, no ask for permission.
He took.
And I let him.
---
It happened in a hallway no one cared about.
Somewhere between a party that felt too loud and a silence that pressed harder than the music ever could.
His fingers brushed my chin, tilted it up.
And then—
His lips were on mine.
But this wasn't the kind of kiss that makes you sigh.
This was the kind that drags your soul out of your chest and says, "Mine."
It was possessive.
Rough.
Almost angry.
But behind every pull of my lower lip, every sharp inhale, there was something else.
Something deeper.
Like he was tasting a secret he'd waited too long to hear.
---
When we pulled apart, I wasn't breathing.
Not really.
My body forgot how.
He looked down at me, pupils blown wide, jaw tight like he was trying not to kiss me again. Or ruin me worse.
"You feel that?" he asked, voice low. "That ache in your chest? That's me."
I didn't respond.
Because he was right.
The ache was new, unfamiliar.
It wasn't just want.
It was need.
A craving for more of him, even though I already knew he'd be the reason I wouldn't recognize myself by the end of this story.
---
We didn't talk for a few minutes. Just stood there.
My back pressed to the wall, his palm still hovering near my hip like he wasn't sure whether to pull me closer or push me away.
"I should stop," he said, more to himself than to me.
"You should," I whispered.
He didn't.
---
Later, I would wonder if this moment was the one that sealed my fate.
If his lips had carved a name into my ribs I'd never be able to scrape out.
Because after that kiss, something changed.
In him.
In me.
In the air around us.
Like the universe had paused and whispered, "Remember this. You'll never be the same."
And God, I wasn't.
---