Page 134 of Impulse Control
“I’ll stop asking hard questions,” she said lightly. “I promise.”
“I didn’t say they were hard,” I managed, and my voice came out too quiet.
Her smile turned amused. “You didn’t have to.”
And then—so casually it was almost unfair—she reached up and brushed a raindrop off my cheek with the pad of her thumb.
The touch was nothing.
It was also everything.
It lasted a second too long.
My breath caught like my body had been waiting for permission.
I could have stepped back.
I could have made a joke.
I could have done what I always did—kept it clean, kept it safe, kept myself out of the frame.
Instead, I lifted my hand and covered her wrist gently. Not to stop her.
To hold her there.
Her eyes flicked to my mouth.
Then back to my eyes.
A silent question.
A pause as the world seemed to hold its breath—just two people standing on a damp Paris street, pretending this was still simple.
I leaned in.
It wasn’t a desperate kiss.
It wasn’t reckless.
It was soft. Careful.
Like we were both testing whether anything would break if we let ourselves want something.
Her lips were warm.
Her hand stayed against my cheek.
For one heartbeat, everything inside me went quiet.
No calendar.
No obligations.
No expectations.
Just now.
Just breath.
