In the movies, this would have been the moment when he held out his hand and I took it in mine, when we stepped in as one and put our foreheads together. When we couldn’t look away and our gazes locked, and we breathed each other in while reality reordered itself. He’d pull a smile out of me as his lips teased at mine. He’d taste like butterscotch from the latte he’d ordered. I’d gone for a black drip. Would he think I tasted too bitter if I kissed him again?
