“We shouldn’t,” she manages, the sound so soft that I almost miss it. Inhaling deeply, I realize she somehow smells like chlorine and oranges, like the scent is ingrained into her being. I want it in mine too. Want it to be the first thing I notice when I wake in the morning and my last conscious observation before sleep. Twisting my fingers lightly in her hair, I move a little closer. “There’s no future tense about it, m’eudail. We already are.”
