Marlowe
The ride home felt different than any ride we'd taken before, my arms around King's waist and his hand occasionally covering mine at a stoplight, small unnecessary touches that had nothing to do with safety and everything to do with neither of us being ready to stop touching yet.
We didn't talk about the kiss. Not directly. But something had shifted permanently in the space between us, visible in the way he glanced back at me at every rest stop, in the way he pulled off the main road twice just to watch the sunset with me for a few extra minutes neither of us could spare.
By the time we reached the den, I understood we'd crossed some threshold neither of us had words for yet — not quite official, not quite named, but undeniably, permanently different than it had been three days
