Wren
“You didn’t have to get anything, Birdie.” Ezra clips my seatbelt for me.
My cheeks burn. “I can’t just go to a little boy’s birthday party empty-handed.”
He pauses, gaze heating up my skin and then he leans in and kisses me. It’s a small peck, gone before I can think about it, but my lips tingle nonetheless.
“You’re amazing,” he praises, smacking his lips and turning the ignition.
I just stare, heart palpitating in my chest, and my whole body reddens.
The ease in which he did that feels so domestic, and I fear I’ll get used to this side of Ezra.
“What did you do that for?” I ask, breathy.
He pulls out of the mall, and places a hand on my thigh. “Do what?”
I don’t respond.
Instead I take in his profile, his messy dark hair, eyes focused on the road. He’s dressed in a white
