The first time he touched her, it was barely a touch.
A balcony.
Rain drying on concrete.
City lights trembling in puddles below.
She stood beside him, arms folded, pretending she wasn't aware of how close he was.
"You disappear when it rains," she said.
He didn't look at her. "Storms are honest."
"And you aren't?"
That made him turn.
The air shifted.
He didn't step forward.
He didn't need to.
She felt it anyway — that quiet intensity, that weight in his gaze like he was studying her instead of looking at her.
His fingers rose slowly, brushing damp hair away from her cheek.
The contact was soft.
But intentional.
Her breath faltered.
He noticed.
He always noticed.
"You don't pull away," he murmured.
"Do you want me to?"
No.
He didn't.
Their foreheads touched first.
Then their lips.
The kiss wasn't urgent. It wasn't reckless.
It was measured.
As if both of them understood that once this started, it wouldn't stop halfway.
And when he deepened it — slowly, deliberately — her hand slid into his shirt, gripping the fabric near his chest like she was steadying herself against something inevitable.
That was the moment it began.
Not the kiss.
The descent.