She grabbed the front of my shirt with both hands. No warning, no hesitation, no careful dance around the moment. This was nine years of holding weight alone and three days of thinking I was dead and the specific relief of discovering otherwise. She pulled me down and I met her halfway.
Her mouth hit mine hot and fierce and desperate. She tasted like salt and morning and every word she hadn't been able to say for three days.
I kissed her back. Both hands in her hair, pulling the ponytail loose the rest of the way. She made a sound against my mouth that I'd been imagining since the first time she squatted next to me on the field and corrected my plank with a stick and I got distracted looking down her tank top. She pressed the whole line of her body into mine, all that lean muscle and generous curve, hands fisted in my shirt like she was afraid I'd disappear if she let go.
