“Olly’s Rhodey. I’m not calling a girl I want to kiss the same thing I call my friend from high school,” he explains. “Doesn’t sit right.” “You’re drunk.” “I’m finally getting to talk to you outside of lab and chem and fucking music-appreciation,” he corrects me. “Either let me kiss you or tell me no so I can stop thinking about it.” “Leo—” “Ellie.” He steps so close I can feel his breath on my skin now. “You don’t want this. Not really.” “Yes, I do.” He rests his hand on my waist.
