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His breath is warm and then his lips are brushing butterfly-soft against mine. My eyes
close on their own. The romantic comedies are right about this part. You have to close
your eyes. He pulls away and my lips are cold. Am I doing it wrong? My eyes fly open and
crash into the darkening blue of his. He kisses me like he’s afraid to continue and he’s
afraid to stop. I grip the front of his shirt and hold on tight.
My butterflies are rioting.
He squeezes my hand and my lips part and we’re tasting each other. He tastes like
salted caramel and sunshine. Or what I think salted caramel and sunshine taste like. He
tastes like nothing I’ve ever experienced, like hope and possibility and the future.
I pull away first this time, but only because I need air. If I could, I would kiss him every
second of every day for all the days.
He leans his forehead against mine. His breath is warm against my nose and cheeks.
It’s slightly sweet. The kind of sweet that makes you want more.
“Is it always like that?” I ask, breathless.
“No,” he says. “It’s never like that.” I hear the wonder in his voice.
And just like that, everything changes.