Believe me when I say—I was skeptical as hell. Like, 0.5% convinced this entire situation was just a dopamine-laced fever dream cooked up by a sleep-deprived brain and a repressed libido. I kept waiting for the moment I'd snap awake in my crusty twin bed, clutching a half-chub and haunted by the ghost of Jack Morrison's latest locker slam.
But standing in Isabella Rodriguez's doorway, her tongue still basically on mine while her lipstick bled into the corner of her mouth like a goddamn love letter?
Yeah. That 0.5% doubt? Gone. Evaporated. Disintegrated like a vampire on a sunbed.
This is real.
This is my fucking life now.
Holy. Shit.
She pulled back—slow, shaky, like her body hadn't gotten the memo that the kissing part was over. Lips swollen. Pupils blown wide. That soft, ruined look in her eyes? That wasn't just post-orgasmic haze. That was devotion. Raw. Addictive. Permanent.
I leaned in, mouth grazing her ear.
