He Was Just My Best Friend... Until He Followed Me To My Bedroom

The heat had settled into Aoife's room like something physical, a weight pressing against the drawn curtains and pooling in the corners where the air refused to move. She sat cross-legged on her bed, wearing only a thin cotton vest and underwear, her history textbook open to a chapter on the Easter Rising that she had already read twice. The exams were in ten days. She would do fine. She always did fine, a fact that drained the urgency from her studying and left her instead with a restless, humid boredom.

Her phone buzzed against the mattress. She knew it was Liam before she looked. The timing was wrong for her mother, who texted only in the evenings, and wrong for the group chat, which had gone silent since Sarah's birthday drinks three days ago. It was Liam's hour, the slow stretch of afternoon when he woke from whatever late sleep his summer job unloading stock at the hardware store allowed him, emerging into consciousness with the need to tell someone something stupid.

She picked up the phone. A photo of a goose wearing sunglasses, no caption. She laughed, a sharp exhale through her nose, and felt the familiar pull in her chest, the gravitational ease of him. They had been sitting next to each other in various classrooms since they were twelve, their desks shuffled and reassigned by indifferent teachers, and yet somehow always ending up adjacent, close enough to pass notes or share a set of headphones under the pretense of listening to the same audio file for an assignment. Their communication had become a language of its own, half-finished sentences and references to conversations held years ago, memes that meant something else entirely.

She abandoned the textbook, letting it fall closed on the rumpled sheets, and typed back: this is literally you

how, he replied, almost immediately.

the smug expression. the complete lack of awareness that you're being photographed.

you're just jealous of my natural beauty

obviously

She could picture him in his kitchen, probably still in the t-shirt he'd slept in, his hair flattened on one side from the pillow. The image arrived fully formed, accompanied by no particular feeling except the comfortable certainty that she knew him, that this knowing required no effort.

come over, she typed, and then deleted it. Wrote instead: are you studying

absolutely not. dying of heat in this house, my mother has the heating on for "the damp"

it's 28 degrees

i know. she's insane. save me

you can come here if you want. pretend to study.

be there in 20

She set the phone down and looked at her room with new eyes, suddenly aware of the underwear drying on the radiator, the cup of tea gone cold on her desk, the general evidence of a life lived without spectators. It didn't matter. It was Liam. She pulled on a pair of shorts and went to open the window, letting in a breath of air that was somehow hotter than what had been trapped inside.

He arrived twenty-three minutes later, which meant he'd walked fast. She heard the knock, three quick raps that she'd know anywhere, and called down to her mother that it was Liam, that they were studying, that she'd bring down cups later. Her mother answered with a vague affirmative from somewhere deep in the house, already absorbed in whatever afternoon program she had chosen for company.

Liam stood in the doorway with his backpack slung over one shoulder, his face flushed from the walk. He'd changed into a different t-shirt, she noticed, a pale blue one that she'd seen before, that she'd probably seen him sleep in. His hair was still damp from a shower, darkened at the temples, and he smelled of the cheap shower gel he kept buying despite her telling him it made him smell like a swimming pool.

"Your house is cooler," he said, stepping past her into the hallway, close enough that his arm brushed hers. "Marginally."

"Upstairs is worse. Come on."

She led him up, aware of him behind her on the narrow stairs, aware of her own bare legs, her own thin vest. They had done this a hundred times. They had done this so many times that the awareness felt like a betrayal of something, a suspicion cast on their history.

Her room was dim, the curtains still drawn against the sun. He dropped his bag by her desk and lowered himself onto the floor, stretching out on his back with his knees bent, feet flat on the rug she'd bought at a market two summers ago. She sat beside him, not quite parallel, her hip angled toward him, and reached for her history notes though she knew she wouldn't read them.

"This is pointless," he said.

"The exams?"

"Everything. Existing in this weather."

She made a sound of agreement and let her notes fall to the floor beside her. They lay in silence for a moment, the kind of silence that had always been easy between them, filled with the white noise of the house, the distant hum of a neighbor's lawnmower. Then he shifted onto his side, propping his head on his hand, and she saw the sweat collecting in the hollow of his throat, the way his t-shirt clung to the line of his collarbone.

"There's a girl," he said. "From the school in town. Orla something. I met her at the hardware, she was buying paint for her brother."

Aoife kept her eyes on the rug, tracing the geometric pattern with her finger. Red diamonds, blue triangles, a repeating sequence she'd memorized without meaning to. "Oh?"

"She's nice. She asked if I wanted to get a drink sometime."

"Are you going to?"

"I don't know. Maybe." He was watching her, she could feel it, though she refused to lift her gaze. "What do you think?"

The question was familiar. She had answered it a hundred times, about a hundred girls, offering opinions that were honest and supportive and completely devoid of the particular feeling that was gathering now in her stomach, tight and unwelcome, a knot of something she didn't want to name.

"She sounds nice," Aoife said. "You should, if you want to."

"Yeah." He was still watching her. She kept her finger moving, red diamond, blue triangle, red diamond. "It's too hot to think about anything, really."

"Yeah."

They lay there for longer than made sense, neither of them moving to open a book or turn on music or do any of the things they had supposedly gathered to do. The heat pressed against the windows, against their skin, against the space between them that had always been certain and was now, suddenly, not certain at all.

"Ice pops," Liam said eventually, the words emerging as if he'd been thinking them for some time. "We need ice pops. The artificial ones that turn your tongue blue."

Aoife pushed herself up, grateful for the excuse to move. "The shop's still open."

They walked in the kind of heat that made the air shimmer above the road, the tarmac soft and sticky under their shoes. The estate was quiet, everyone sealed inside their houses with curtains drawn against the sun. Their footsteps echoed too loud in the silence.

"Remember when we were eleven," Liam said, "and we tried to fry an egg on the pavement outside your house?"

"You mean when you tried to fry an egg. I told you it wouldn't work."

"Scientific method. You have to test these things."

She snorted, falling into step beside him. They walked close enough that their arms occasionally bumped, the way they always had, but now she was conscious of the space between them in a way that felt new and uncomfortable.

The shop was empty except for Mrs. Hennessy behind the counter, fanning herself with a magazine. They bought four ice pops each, the cheap kind that came in plastic tubes, and walked back out into the heat.

"Let's not go straight home," Aoife said.

They took the long way, past the green where the grass had turned yellow and brittle. She could feel the cold of the ice pop through the plastic, condensation wet against her palm. Liam was quiet beside her, peeling the wrapper off his first one with careful fingers.

The silence stretched between them, different from their usual easy quiet. She kept thinking about his throat, about the way he'd looked at her when he mentioned the girl from the hardware store, about the fact that she was wearing a vest top and shorts and suddenly felt too exposed in her own skin.

Their hands brushed as they walked, a casual contact that had happened a thousand times before. But this time it felt like electricity shooting up her arm, a jolt that made her breath catch. They both pulled away too quickly, stepping apart like they'd been burned.

The silence that followed was heavy, loaded with something she couldn't name. She could hear her own heartbeat, loud in her ears, could feel the heat radiating off the pavement and off his skin. He was looking straight ahead, jaw tight, the ice pop melting forgotten in his hand.

"Your tongue's already blue," she said finally, the words coming out too loud.

He glanced at her, something unreadable in his eyes. "So's yours."

They walked the rest of the way home without speaking, the distance between them measured and deliberate, the air thick with everything they weren't saying.

The party was in Cillian Moran's back garden, a post-exam celebration that had been planned with more enthusiasm than execution. Someone had strung fairy lights between the fence posts, though it wasn't dark yet, and a bluetooth speaker played music that kept cutting out whenever someone walked in front of it. Aoife stood near the compost bin with a can of cider that had gone warm in her hand, watching Liam across the uneven lawn.

He was talking to her. Orla. The girl from the hardware store.

Aoife could see them clearly from where she stood, could see the way Liam leaned in slightly to catch something Orla was saying, his head tilted at that particular angle that Aoife knew intimately. He'd leaned in like that to hear her a thousand times, in classrooms and cinemas and crowded kitchens at other people's parties. It was his gesture, his particular way of showing attention, and seeing it directed at someone else felt like a physical intrusion, a hand reaching into her chest and rearranging something vital.

Orla was pretty in a way that made Aoife feel both invisible and overexposed. She had her hair in two braids and wore a yellow dress that caught the last of the sunlight. She was gesturing with her hands as she spoke, and Liam was watching her with the focused attention he usually reserved for Aoife's stories, for the rambling anecdotes she told about her mother's eccentricities or the strange customers at her weekend job.

Aoife took a sip of the warm cider and tasted nothing. She felt wrong in her own skin, wearing jeans she'd pulled on without thinking and a top that suddenly seemed too tight, too deliberate. She wasn't sure why she'd come. Liam had texted her that morning—Moran's having people over, you going?—and she'd typed yes before considering whether she wanted to watch this, whether she could stand to witness her own displacement.

She watched Orla laugh at something Liam said, watched him smile in response, that particular smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. Aoife knew that smile. She'd been the primary recipient of that smile for years, had taken it for granted like sunlight, like air.

And now here she was, standing by a compost bin, holding warm alcohol and feeling something ugly and unfamiliar coil in her stomach. Possessiveness. Jealousy. The words felt adolescent and humiliating, yet undeniable. She wanted to walk across the lawn and insert herself between them, wanted to claim him with some crude gesture, a hand on his arm, a reference to some private history that Orla couldn't possibly share.

Instead she stayed where she was, pretending to be absorbed in her phone, occasionally glancing up to torture herself with fresh observations. They had moved closer together, she noticed. Orla's shoulder was almost touching his. The fairy lights flickered overhead, casting uncertain shadows across the grass.

Cillian Moran appeared beside her, offering a bag of crisps she didn't want. She took one to be polite and ate it without tasting it, still watching. Liam had his hands in his pockets now, his posture relaxed in a way that suggested comfort, ease. He looked happy. She wanted him to look happy. She wanted to set something on fire.

"You're Aoife, right?" Cillian said. "You and Liam are like, joined at the hip."

She turned to look at him, this boy she'd shared classrooms with for six years without ever really seeing. "Something like that."

"Cool," he said, though he seemed to sense he'd touched something raw, and drifted away toward the makeshift bar of stolen kitchen chairs and plastic crates.

Aoife looked back at Liam and found him looking at her. Their eyes met across the garden, across the heads of other people, across the space that had grown between them since the afternoon in her bedroom. He didn't smile. She didn't smile. Something passed between them, electric and unnameable, and then Orla said something and he turned back to her, the moment broken.

Aoife finished her cider in one long swallow and crushed the can in her hand. The metal dug into her palm, a small pain to focus on. She thought about leaving, about walking out of Cillian Moran's gate and going home to her empty house, to the unmade bed and the textbooks she'd abandoned. But she stayed, pinned to the spot by something she couldn't explain, watching the boy she knew better than anyone behave like a stranger with someone else.

The kitchen was cooler than the garden, the tile floor radiating a faint chill that reached up through Aoife's canvas shoes. She had come in search of more cider, or perhaps just escape from the sight of Liam's shoulder almost touching Orla's yellow dress, but instead she found him alone at the sink, filling a glass from the tap.

He turned when she entered, water still running, and something in his face shifted when he saw her. The easy social mask he'd been wearing outside slipped, revealing something more complicated underneath.

"Hey," he said. "You alright?"

The question hung in the air between them, too direct, too knowing. She felt suddenly exposed, as if he'd read every ugly thought she'd been nursing by the compost bin.

"Fine," she said. "Warm out there."

"Yeah." He turned off the tap and drank, his throat moving, and she found herself staring at the line of his jaw, the place where his hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck. "You didn't seem fine. Earlier."

She leaned against the counter, needing the support. "Just tired. Exams, you know."

"Liar." He said it softly, without accusation, setting the glass down. "You've been avoiding me all evening."

"I haven't—"

"Aoife." He took a step closer, and she could smell him, that particular combination of deodorant and something else that was just him, that she'd known for years without ever really noticing until now. "What happened? After the other day. In your room."

She opened her mouth to deny that anything had happened, to insist they were the same as they'd always been, but the words wouldn't come. The silence stretched between them, charged and dangerous.

He reached out, his hand hovering near her face for a moment before he touched her, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. The contact was barely there, a whisper of skin against skin, yet it sent something cold and hot racing down her spine. His fingers lingered, resting against her jaw for one heartbeat, two, longer than friendship allowed, longer than innocence permitted.

She stopped breathing. She could see the pulse in his throat, could see his pupils blown wide in the harsh kitchen light. His thumb moved, almost imperceptibly, tracing the curve of her cheekbone, and she felt herself lean into the touch without deciding to, her body betraying her before her mind could intervene.

"Aoife," he said again, and this time her name sounded different, like a question he was afraid to ask.

She should step back. She should laugh, make a joke, restore the boundary that had kept them safe for so long. Instead she stood frozen, her face tilted up toward his hand, feeling the heat of his palm radiating against her skin.

Footsteps approached in the hallway, voices rising in laughter, and they jerked apart like guilty children, Liam's hand falling to his side, Aoife stumbling back against the counter. Cillian Moran appeared in the doorway with two other boys she didn't recognize, talking loudly about someone throwing up in the flower beds.

The moment shattered. Liam picked up his glass again and drank, his hand not quite steady, and Aoife busied herself with the fridge, pulling out a can she didn't want, her heart hammering so hard she was certain they could all hear it.

When she turned back, Liam was watching her with an expression she couldn't parse, something between longing and fear. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and in the end said nothing at all, just followed Cillian back out into the garden, leaving her alone with the hum of the refrigerator and the ghost of his touch still burning on her cheek.

Aoife found him waiting by the front gate when she finally escaped the kitchen, the party having thinned to its committed core of drinkers and dancers. He was checking his phone, the screen illuminating his face in the blue-white glow, and he looked up before she reached him, as if he'd felt her approaching through the dark.

"Walking?" he asked.

"Yeah."

They fell into step together automatically, their bodies remembering the rhythm of years of shared journeys even as everything else between them had become uncertain. The streetlights cast pools of orange sodium light along the pavement, and they walked through them in silence at first, the sounds of the party fading behind them until they were alone with the hum of distant traffic and the occasional bark of a dog.

"So," Liam said, and she could hear him grasping for normalcy, for the familiar shape of their conversations. "UCAS. You heard back from anywhere?"

"Not yet. You?"

"Bristol. Conditional."

"That's good."

"Yeah."

They passed under a streetlight and she saw his profile clearly for a moment, the set of his mouth, the tension in his jaw. Then shadow again, and she was grateful for the darkness, for the way it hid whatever her own face might be revealing.

"Your mum still on about the nursing?" he asked.

"Constantly."

"And your dad?"

"Says I should do what I want." She paused, watching her feet navigate the cracked pavement. "Which is somehow worse."

Liam laughed, a small sound that seemed to cost him something. "Mine just want me out of the house. Anywhere. They'd fund a circus apprenticeship at this point."

"Mr. Hennessy asked about you today. In French."

"Christ. What did he want?"

"Said you owed him an essay from 2019."

"That was third year."

"He remembers everything. It's pathological."

They were talking too fast, she realized, filling space with words to keep something else from rushing in. She could feel it working between them, this desperate performance of ordinariness, and she wondered if he could feel it too, if his chest was tight with the same pressure, if his skin was still sensitive to the memory of where he'd touched her.

They turned onto her street, the houses dark and sleeping, and the silence finally caught them. Their footsteps echoed against parked cars, mismatched now that she was listening for it, his heavier tread and her lighter scuff.

"That girl," Aoife heard herself say. "Orla. She seems nice."

She hadn't meant to say it. The words arrived from somewhere malicious, somewhere that wanted to force his hand, make him choose between honesty and the pretense they were both maintaining.

Liam stopped walking. She stopped too, two houses down from her own, standing in the gap between streetlights where the darkness was almost complete.

"She's fine," he said. "I don't—" He ran his hand through his hair, a gesture she'd seen ten thousand times, suddenly rendered strange by everything it wasn't saying. "I don't really care about Orla."

"Okay."

"Aoife."

But he didn't finish whatever he was going to say, and she didn't ask him to. They stood there in the dark, close enough that she could smell the faint trace of cigarette smoke from someone else's garden clinging to his shirt, close enough that she could have reached out and taken his hand if she'd allowed herself.

"Your gate," he said finally.

She looked up and saw it, black iron, familiar, impossibly distant from where they stood. They walked the last stretch without speaking, and when they reached it she turned to face him, expecting the automatic choreography of their goodbye: the brief embrace, the pat on the back, the see-you-tomorrow.

Instead they stood apart, two feet of charged space between them. He had his hands in his pockets. She was holding her elbows, a posture she'd adopted without noticing.

"Well," he said.

"Yeah."

"See you."

"See you."

She turned and opened the gate, the metal cold under her fingers, and walked up the path without looking back. At her door she fumbled for her keys, dropped them, retrieved them with hands that wouldn't quite steady. When she finally let herself inside, she stood in the hallway and listened for his footsteps retreating, but heard nothing, only the blood rushing in her own ears and the absence of his arms around her, the absence that felt like a new language she was only beginning to learn.

The sun pressed against her curtains like a physical weight, turning her bedroom into a slow oven. Aoife lay spread-eagled on top of the duvet, her phone balanced on her sternum, earbuds leaking tinny music. She had kicked off her shorts hours ago; the cotton vest clung to her back with sweat. Every time she shifted, the fabric peeled away with a faint, damp sound.

She was supposed to be revising economics definitions, but the index cards had slid to the floor sometime after lunch. Instead she watched the ceiling, counting the hairline cracks she had known since childhood, letting the bass line thud against her ribs.

A vibration against her breastbone. She lifted the phone.

Liam: I’m two streets away. House is carnage. Can I hide?

Her thumb hovered. The rational part of her—small, overheated—suggested saying no, or at least waiting five minutes so she didn’t seem desperate. She deleted the automatic excuse and typed:

Yeah. Door’s open.

She pressed send and the thumping in her chest doubled. The music felt suddenly stupid; she yanked the earbuds out, rolled off the bed, and caught her reflection in the wardrobe mirror. Face flushed, hair sticking to her temples, vest damp under the arms. She smelled of salt and sunscreen.

She considered changing, then decided against it. Pretending she wasn’t melting would only make her more self-conscious.

Downstairs, the front door stood ajar; her parents had gone to visit her aunt in Portlaoise and wouldn’t be back until evening. She pushed it fully open, the handle warm from the sun, and stood barefoot on the tiles, listening.

A minute later Liam appeared at the gate, T-shirt already dark down the centre of his back. He raised a hand in a half-wave, half-apology, and climbed the path. When he stepped inside, the cooler air of the hall made him exhale.

“Jesus, it’s brutal,” he said, voice low, as if loudness might break something fragile.

She shrugged, hyper-aware of her nipples showing through the thin vest. “Kitchen’s coolest. Come on.”

They moved through the house like burglars, careful not to touch. In the kitchen he filled two glasses from the tap, handed her one first. Their fingers brushed; condensation slicked her palm. She drank, watching his throat work, the bead of water that slipped from the rim and slid to his collarbone.

He set his glass down and met her eyes. “Thanks for letting me in.”

She meant to say something casual—anytime, you idiot—but the words stuck. The silence stretched, thick with everything they hadn’t said since the party.

He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Can we… go upstairs? It’s weird down here.”

She nodded, throat dry, and led the way. Each step felt deliberate, like climbing a ladder she couldn’t see the top of. At her bedroom door she paused, then pushed it wide. The curtains were still drawn, the air inside heavy with heat and the faint scent of her coconut deodorant.

They stood in the middle of the rug, two feet apart. The door clicked shut behind him.

“Liam—” she started, but he spoke at the same time.

“I can’t stop thinking about the kitchen. Your face when I—” He stopped, swallowed. “I keep feeling your skin. Like it’s still on my fingers.”

Her breath caught. She wanted to laugh at the melodrama of it, but her body had other ideas: nipples tightening, thighs pressing together without permission.

“I think about it too,” she said, voice rough. “All the time. And I hate that we’re pretending we didn’t.”

His shoulders dropped, relief or surrender. He took one step closer; the floorboard creaked. “So stop pretending.”

The kitchen tiles were cool against her bare feet, a small relief. She moved to the sink, filling two glasses from the tap, the water running cloudy before it cleared. When she turned, he was watching her, his back against the counter, arms folded. The posture was defensive, she thought, or protective. She couldn't tell anymore.

"Here," she said, holding out a glass.

He took it, his fingers brushing hers. The condensation made their skin slip, a brief, wet friction. She watched him drink, his Adam's apple moving, the glass tilting until the water was gone. He set it down with a click that seemed too loud.

"Another?"

"Yeah."

She filled his glass again, and her own, though she wasn't thirsty. The act of doing something, of having a purpose, kept her from looking at him directly. But she could feel his eyes on her, the weight of his attention like a hand on her shoulder.

"Your parents?"

"Portlaoise. Aunt's birthday."

He nodded, as if this information confirmed something. "So it's just us."

"Just us."

The words hung between them, simple and enormous. She leaned against the counter opposite him, the edge digging into her lower back. The silence wasn't empty; it was full of the things they'd been carrying since the party, since the kitchen, since years before that if she was honest with herself.

"Do you remember," he said, and stopped. He was looking at her mouth, she realized. She felt her lips part, a reflex, a invitation she hadn't authorized.

"What?"

"Fourth year. When Hennessy made us partners for that presentation."

"The French Revolution."

"Yeah." He laughed, a short sound. "You wore that yellow jumper. I kept forgetting my lines because I was looking at you."

She remembered the jumper, scratchy wool, too hot for May. She didn't remember him looking. "You never said."

"I never said a lot of things."

The kitchen seemed smaller suddenly, the air thicker. She could smell him, sweat and the faint chemical sweetness of deodorant, something underneath that was just his skin. She wanted to step closer, to close the distance, but her legs wouldn't move.

"Why now?" she asked. "Why are you saying them now?"

He set his glass down again, empty, and straightened from the counter. One step toward her, then another, until they were close enough that she could see the individual beads of sweat on his upper lip, the flush that still hadn't left his cheeks.

"Because I can't pretend anymore," he said. "Because you looked at me tonight like you wanted me to stop talking about Orla. And I wanted to. I wanted to tell her to go away, to tell everyone to go away, so I could—"

He stopped. His gaze dropped to her mouth again, deliberate this time, unmistakable. She felt her breath catch, a physical hitch in her chest that made her dizzy.

"So you could what?"

But he didn't answer. His hand came up, fingers hovering near her jaw, not quite touching. She could feel the heat radiating from his skin, the tremor in his wrist. The question hung between them, suspended in the thick afternoon air, waiting for her to answer it with her body or her silence.

She moved first, or maybe he did—later she couldn’t separate the moment when hovering became touching. His palm settled against her jaw, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth, and she felt the small, involuntary sound that left her throat. Then his forehead against hers, the faint scrape of stubble, the shared inhale before their mouths met.

It wasn’t a question anymore. It was confirmation, the way his lips parted hers, the way her hands found the hem of his T-shirt and pushed it up so she could feel the sweat-slick skin of his back. They stumbled out of the kitchen, up the stairs, mouths separating only long enough to breathe, to whisper profanity at the heat, at the years of not doing this.

In her bedroom they stopped, two feet of charged space between them. The curtains glowed orange, the sun pressing through. She could hear her pulse, loud as a drum.

“Aoife,” he said, her name barely sound. He swallowed. “I haven’t stopped thinking about the other night. Your skin. The way you looked at me when I touched your face.”

The words felt too big for the room. She wrapped her arms around herself, fingers digging into her own ribs.

“Me neither,” she managed. “I keep replaying it. I keep—” She stopped, cheeks burning. “I want it back. I want more. And I’m terrified that wanting it means I’ll lose you.”

His eyes darkened. Two steps and he was in front of her, hands framing her shoulders. “You won’t lose me.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“I can promise to try.” He bent, pressing his mouth to the hinge of her jaw, breath hot. “Tell me to stop and I will. Otherwise I’m going to kiss you until we can’t remember why we waited.”

She tilted her face, finding his lips, answer enough. They kissed standing, then kneeling when the edge of the mattress hit the backs of her knees. Vest peeled away, his shirt gone somewhere on the floor. Skin against skin, the shock of it electric, his chest hair rough against her breasts, her nipples so sensitive she gasped into his mouth.

He eased her down, the unmade sheet cool under her back, his weight settling between her thighs. Through cotton shorts she felt him hard, pressing, and she rolled her hips without thinking, a bright spark of pleasure making her breath stutter.

“I want—” she started, then lost the sentence when he sucked gently at the base of her throat.

“Tell me.”

She dragged her nails down his spine, felt him shudder. “I want everything. But slow. I want to feel all of it.”

He lifted onto his elbows, eyes searching hers. “Slow,” he agreed, voice rough, and bent to kiss her again, slower, deeper, like time had expanded just for them.