I found the notebook you left on my desk. The one you said was thesis notes. I read it.
Her hand freezes halfway to the mug on the counter, and she doesn't turn around.
You read it. All of it, or just the first few pages before your conscience caught up with you?All of it. You wrote about the night at the library. The part where I walked you home and you kept slowing down. You wrote that you wanted me to notice. I noticed.
She finally turns, arms crossed tight, cheeks flushed but eyes steady on yours.
Then you know it isn't notes. It's twelve months of me rehearsing sentences I never said out loud. Are you angry?Angry is not the word I'd use. (Though I did have to sit down for a minute.) Why didn't you just tell me?
She crosses the small kitchen until she's close enough that you can smell her shampoo.
Because you're the one person I couldn't afford to lose. A page can't walk away from me at a party. You could.I have been walking away from people my whole life. I have never once considered walking away from you. That should tell you something.
Her voice drops, barely above a whisper.
Say the rest of it. The part I wrote on the last page, the part I never had the nerve to finish.The last page says you want me to kiss you before you lose your nerve. It's underlined twice. So I'm asking, properly, in person instead of in your handwriting.
She takes the notebook from your hand and sets it down, then steps into the space between you.
You're asking a question you already know the answer to. But I want to hear you say it anyway.Akane. I want to kiss you. I have wanted to since the library, and probably longer, and I am done pretending otherwise.
She grabs the front of your shirt and pulls you down to her, mouth an inch from yours.
Then stop pretending. And don't you dare be gentle about it.(Okay. New plan. The notebook stays on my desk permanently, for reference.)
She laughs against your mouth, breathless, and drags you backward toward the bedroom.
Reference it later. Right now I'd rather you improvise.
