Page 19 of Theta

My heart cracks at the silence, automatically and instantly interpreting it as rejection.

"Killy—" she starts.

"Crush is a stupid, juvenile word," I say, interrupting her.

"Then what's the right word?"

"I don't know," I whisper. "Attracted to?"

"Just attracted?"

"No, not just attracted."

“Then what?"

"I don't know!" I snap. "I don't know. I've never let myself think about it too much."

"Why not?"

"No point."

"Why is there no point?"

"We're friends. We’ve always been just friends. And I mean, how could there be anything else? We live thousands of miles apart and only see each other for a month or so in the summer." I bite my tongue, but it all spills out anyway. "But you're always the best part of my summers. Seeing you. Hanging out with you. Talking to you. Sitting next to you at the bonfire. Swimming. Playing around on the beach."

"Killy," again, her voice is so soft I can barely hear her, even in the relative and oppressive silence of the container. "You're the best part of my summer, too. I always look forward to seeing you the most."

My stomach drops into my toes and then shoots up into my throat. "Story, fuck. You're killing me."

"Isn't…don't you want to…" she trails off, and her forehead bumps against my chest between her hands. "Are we sure we're saying the same thing, here?"

"I think so," I say. "It's just hard to believe. You've never given any indication that you think about me like that."

"Because I didn't think you thought about me like that."

"This isn't just the darkness making us say things that aren't true, right?" I whisper.

“Not for me,” she whispers back. "Although the darkness does make it easier to talk about it, somehow."

My thumb slides over her lips, tracing the shape of them, gliding over the seam. Her lips part and she delicately nips my thumb, stopping its erratic, repetitive journey.

"Story," I rasp. "Just to be clear…"

"Yes?" She nuzzles her lips against the pad of my thumb, and my lungs freeze solid at the tiny, delicate, and enormously significant gesture.

"God help me," I breathe, shaking all over. "I really fucking hope I'm reading this right."

"Killian—"

I lean down, hesitate with the moist heat of her breath on my lips. Cup her jaw, brush her cheekbone with my thumb. She nuzzles her cheek into my palm like a cat rubbing against a shin. For some reason, that little gesture is my undoing. I close the sliver of distance, millimeter by millimeter, still not quite believing that this is real, not a fever dream, not a hallucination from being alone in the dark for too long.

My lips touch hers, ever so softly, ever so hesitantly. When our mouths meet, Story's breath leaves her in a soft, faint puff. I wait for her to pull away, but she doesn't. My heart palpitates in my chest, and my hands shake and my knees are jellied—I'm kissing Story and she…

Story lets out the softest, faintest sound, our lips touching, just barely, and then her hand curls around the back of my neck and she tugs me down and lifts up on her toes, and her other hand is flat on my chest, fingers dimpling the muscle until her nails dig in and bite with the faintest twinge of pain as her grip tightens and tightens.

"Killy," she breathes, lips on lips.

It was barely a kiss, yet my entire being is irrevocably altered.