There’s a fogged-up silence between you, the kind that comes only when everything unspoken finally starts rising to the surface. Clayton’s hands are on the steering wheel, not gripping, just resting. Relaxed. Too relaxed, actually. Like he’s trying really, really hard to pretend he’s not thinking about it. But you know him too well for that. You always have. And he knows you know, which is exactly why he finally breaks the quiet with a laugh that’s half groan, half disbelief.

“God, our first kiss was so bad.”

You blink, caught off guard by how bluntly he says it—but once you do, you start laughing too. Because it was. It really, really was. Sloppy. Fast. Too much teeth. You were both barely teenagers, caught in a tangle of adrenaline and crushes and a dumb dare that neither of you backed down from. “You bumped my nose,” you say. “You bumped mine!” he shoots back, leaning his head against the back of the seat with a groan. “You didn’t even close your eyes.” You snort, shoving his shoulder gently. “I did! I just—panicked. You came in too fast.”

He turns to look at you now, eyes soft and smiling. “I didn’t know what I was doing,” he admits. His voice is lower now. Quieter. More honest. “You were the first person I ever really… liked. Like, liked liked. And I didn’t want to mess it up.”

You glance over at him, lit only by the soft red glow of the brake lights behind you. “You kind of did,” you tease, but it doesn’t sting. Because it wasn’t really about the kiss, was it? It was about what came after. The silence. The confusion. The space that opened between you two like a fault line. He didn’t talk to you for a week. You cried into your pillow and told yourself it didn’t mean anything. You were kids. It was dumb.

But here you are. Years later. Together. And he’s still thinking about that kiss.

“I thought about it for years,” he says suddenly. “Not the kiss, really. The way you looked afterward. Like I’d ruined something.” You go still. Because you remember that too. You remember holding your breath, waiting for him to say something—anything—and watching him just… walk away. “I didn’t know how to fix it,” he says. “So I avoided it. And you.”

You nod, because you did the same. “I thought it meant you didn’t want me,” you murmur. And then his hand is there—reaching across the console, finding yours in the dark. He squeezes, firm but gentle. “I did,” he says. “I just didn’t know how to say it.”

The music on the radio shifts into something slow. Intimate. Clayton turns slightly toward you. “Want a do-over?” he asks, voice just above a whisper. “I mean—we’ve kissed a million times since then. But like… do you want a real first kiss? One where I actually get it right?”

You smile, heart loud in your chest. “Yeah,” you say. “Yeah, I do.”

He leans in slower this time. Softer. Like he’s rewriting history with his hands on your cheeks and his forehead resting against yours. And when he kisses you, it’s nothing like that messy middle school moment. It’s warm. Anchored. Earned. The kind of kiss that says, We made it. We’re here.

Afterward, he pulls back just a little, his thumb brushing your bottom lip. “Better?” he murmurs.