“No,” I whisper, so quietly I’m not even sure he heard me. “I don’t hate you, Fitz.” That’s all it takes. That one answer, and suddenly his fingers are weaving themselves into my hair to pull my head back so he can cover my mouth with his own. His lips are moving against mine with urgency and familiarity, like this is a piece he’s spent years memorizing and now knows exactly every which note to play. Like we’ve done this a million times before and it’s just muscle memory now.
