Because it felt like if I didn’t have my possession of her in writing, she’d slip from my fingers again. I was all in, had known this obsession would only escalate once I’d had her body, her attention, and her smiles all to myself. I’d warned her years ago when she’d pressed her lips to mine. I’d let her do it, because I’d thought it would turn me off and then I could finally put this infatuation with her behind me. I hated kissing, especially the sounds of it from the next room—and what it had usually meant for me—since I could remember. But when she’d kissed me, it hadn’t disgusted me in the
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