I don’t meet him halfway.
I meet him all the way.
My hands find the front of his jacket and I pull him into me and kiss him back. He lifts me onto the counter. I wrap my legs around his waist and urge him closer. The mask is bunched up above his mouth but still covering his nose and eyes, and when I feel the fabric brush against my cheek, reality punches through.
He freezes. His chest is heaving against mine. “What?”
“The mask,” I breathe. “Pull it back down.”
He looks at me. Or I think he does—I can’t actually see his eyes with the fabric pushed up like that. I can only see his mouth, and I need to stop seeing it, because a mouth is too personal. A mouth has expressions. A mouth can smile and frown and belong to a real human being who has a name and a history and thoughts and feeling
