“That . . . wasn’t your first time kissing someone,” he says. A half question. “Of course not.” It was only my second kiss, but I’m enjoying this, proving his assumptions wrong. And I don’t want to give him any reason to think that what happened just now was special, that it meant something when it didn’t. It shouldn’t. “Who?” he asks. A full question now. I lean over the railing, my head turned away from him. “Why do you care?” “I don’t,” he says heatedly. “But I want to know.”
