I forced myself to hold the moment, camera-ready and stone-faced, but all I could think about was the last time a kiss had meant something. Really meant something. Natalie. Her name slammed into me like a sucker punch. She’d tasted like mint and mischief, like strawberry lip balm and too many memories. Kissing her had never been rehearsed. It had never needed staging. It was messy and real and electric in a way that couldn’t be manufactured under studio lights. With her, I never had to fake it. Never had to pretend I was in love. Because I was.
