I hesitated only a second longer.
Then I leaned in.
He didn't move, not right away—he let me come to him, like he knew I needed to feel in control of this. Our faces were barely inches apart, and for a heartbeat, we just hovered there. His breath was warm and sweet, tinged with cider. His eyes dropped to my lips. Then, finally, mine found his.
Our mouths met softly, at first—just the lightest brush of lips. But even that first touch sent something sparking low in my stomach. His lips were warm, slow, deliberate. Not rushed. Not awkward. They moved against mine like he'd done this a hundred times but still wanted to get this one right.
I shifted closer on the arm of the sofa, my body moving before my brain could catch up. One of his hands slid up, warm and steady, until his fingers found the side of my jaw. His thumb brushed the edge of my cheekbone, a feather-light touch that made me shiver, even in the thick heat of the room. He tilted my face slightly, deepening the kiss—just enough to make my pulse spike.
He kissed like he had time.
Like we weren't just two strangers tangled up in a post-club haze, but something that mattered, even if only for tonight.
The hand on my cheek drifted back, fingers sliding through my hair as his other arm curled around my waist, grounding me. I let myself sink into him, tasting him. His tongue teased at the seam of my lips and I parted for him instinctively, the kiss turning hotter, messier, slower and more intense all at once.
A quiet sound escaped me—barely a sigh—but he caught it, responding with a soft groan against my mouth that made my legs feel suddenly unsteady. I could feel the strength in his hands now, the gentle but confident way he held me, like he knew exactly where to touch without overstepping.
It wasn't just a kiss anymore. It was something heavier.
My fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him just a little closer. He tasted like sweetness and adrenaline, and I realised how long it had been since someone had made me feel this seen. This wanted.
Around us, the workshop-turned-afterparty still buzzed with laughter and low music. But all of it faded into background static. Right now, it was just him, and me, and the heat of his mouth against mine.
When we finally broke apart, my breath was shallow, my heart pounding like it had run a mile. He kept his hand in my hair, eyes locked on mine, a lazy smile tugging at his lips.
"Well?" he asked, voice low and slightly hoarse. "How was your first Welsh kiss?"
I laughed—soft, breathless, a little dazed. "Dangerous."
His smile widened. "You've got no idea."
The sound of people whooping broke my attention.
I blinked, breath still shallow, and turned just in time to see Aliya across the room, grinning like a maniac and clapping slowly with mock drama. A few of her friends joined in, whistling, someone shouting, "Get it, girl!" over the music.
My face flushed instantly—hotter than any shot I'd had tonight. I ducked my head with a sheepish laugh, but Callum just chuckled beside me, completely unfazed. His hand was still resting on my waist, like it belonged there.
Aliya sauntered over, still beaming. "Well, well, Em," she said with a teasing smirk, nudging me playfully with her hip. "I leave you alone for ten minutes and you go full romance novel on me?"
I rolled my eyes, though I couldn't stop smiling. "It wasn't like that."
"Oh, babe—it absolutely was." She leaned in closer and stage-whispered, "You two looked like you were seconds away from a softcore film deal."
Callum snorted with laughter, leaning back into the sofa, stretching his arms across the top like he had no shame left to lose. "What can I say? Must be the fairy lights. Sets the mood."
I buried my face in my hands, groaning.
Aliya plopped down next to me, her tone softening. "Seriously though—you okay?"
I peeked at her through my fingers. "Yeah. I just… I wasn't expecting any of this."
"Good," she said simply, bumping her shoulder against mine. "You deserve unexpected."
Her words stuck with me. You deserve unexpected.
Maybe I did. Maybe after the move, the isolation, the feeling like I was always one step out of place—I deserved a little chaos. A little magic. A little attention that didn't feel forced or performative.
I glanced sideways at Callum. He was talking to someone now, but his hand brushed mine as he spoke—just a light touch, but intentional. Still there. Still present.
Something fluttered deep in my chest.
It wasn't love. It wasn't even a crush yet.
But it was something.
And for the first time in months, that felt like enough.
The warmth inside the workshop had started to feel cloying. Too many bodies, too much laughter that no longer reached me the same way. The cushion beside me was still empty, but I couldn't seem to fill the space Callum had left, not with Aliya, not with music, not even with that cheap fizzy drink in my hand.
Aliya was dancing again—half-lost in the rhythm, glitter clinging to her cheekbones, hands in the air as she laughed with her friends. I smiled watching her, but the smile didn't quite reach my chest. Something inside me had started to pull tight, a quiet knot forming in the pit of my stomach.
I slipped away unnoticed.
No jacket. No plan. Just the hazy instinct that I needed air.
Outside, the night air rushed over my skin like a slap and a balm all at once. Cool. Damp. Real. I breathed in deeply, trying to clear the fog that had settled somewhere between my ribs and my thoughts. The alley was quiet except for the muffled thump of music from inside and the distant hum of passing cars on the high street.
I leaned against the cold brick wall of the workshop, looking up at the dull, starless sky. My crown had slipped sideways, and I pulled it off absently, letting my hair fall loose around my shoulders. The party. My birthday.
I thought about my dad. His excitement. His plan to get Ethan involved. I hadn't even thought about Ethan in the last hour. Not once. Callum had replaced him—entirely. Or so I thought.
But standing here now, alone and sobering slightly, I could feel that familiar tug of unease again. Maybe it wasn't just about the kiss. Maybe it was about me, clinging to moments and trying to turn them into meaning. Trying to pretend I fit somewhere I didn't.
The low rumble of an engine caught my attention.
Headlights crept into the alley, bouncing off the wet asphalt. A dark car rolled in slowly—sleek, tinted windows, music thudding from inside.
It parked a little too casually, the doors opening before it even fully stopped. I stepped back into the shadows instinctively, more curious than cautious.
Callum emerged from the backseat, laughing, his mates tumbling out behind him, rowdy and tipsy, already halfway through a shared joke. I was just about to call out—to maybe rejoin them, smooth things over—when the front passenger door opened and a girl stepped out.
She was gorgeous. Tall, hair pulled into a slick ponytail, crop top barely covering her ribs, the kind of confidence that didn't need makeup to shout. She walked straight up to Callum and kissed him.
Not a peck. Not a hesitant greeting. A kiss. Long. Deep. Familiar.
His hand slid around her waist like muscle memory.
My breath caught. I couldn't move. Couldn't blink. Just watched, frozen in place like a ghost pressed into brick.
She pulled back with a grin, wiped the corner of her mouth, and walked ahead of the group toward the workshop. Callum didn't follow her right away. He turned to his mates, who burst into fresh fits of laughter.
"Mate," one of them cackled, slapping his shoulder, "you're an absolute menace. You're gonna have to rate them now—who's better, the Welsh dragon or the Yank?"
"Easy," another chimed in. "The American looked like she was kissing with a health warning. So slow, like she thought she'd break him."
"Too polite," someone else joked.
"Like kissing a bloody librarian."
Callum shrugged, grinning as he pulled a vape from his pocket. "It was alright," he said, casually. "Kinda timid. Cute, I guess. But not really my style. Still—" he winked— "got to tick that box, didn't I?"
The others burst into loud, jeering laughter. One pretended to scribble something into a fake notebook.
"'Emma, American, slow kisser, needs practice—conquered.'"
I felt like I'd been punched in the chest.
Heat flooded my face—humiliation, betrayal, anger, all tangled up in something deeper I didn't want to name. My ears rang. My mouth had gone dry. I turned before I could hear more and backed away down the alley, heart hammering against my ribs. I didn't cry. Not yet.
But something inside me hardened.
It wasn't just the kiss. It was the way he'd looked at me.
The way I'd let myself believe—for one brief moment—that it meant something. That I meant something.
God, I thought, I was just a joke.
And worse?
A forgettable one apparently.