Bold of me thinking I could sleep after that kiss. Now here I am, lying on the unfamiliar bed in the guest room, staring blankly at the white ceiling that reflects the weak moonlight seeping through the blinds. The sheets smell like fresh laundry and Noah's detergent—clean, subtle, maybe lavender. I barely move, just breathing in and out, eyes dry from being open too long.
I kissed a guy.
I kissed him.
I kissed Noah.
And I ... liked it?
I make a face, scrunch the blanket in my hand. Ugh.
It replays again and again like a looped clip in my head—the way he asked for permission, how soft his voice turned in that one moment, how warm his breath felt against my cheek, how the world suddenly quieted. And how I didn't stop him—I didn't even want to.
It's absurd, how natural it felt. How right. How not-weird it was.
