I know you’re mad. I can see it in the way you won’t even look at me. Your jaw is tense, your arms crossed, your whole body radiating that stubborn, I’m-not-letting-this-go energy.

But I can’t stand it — the space between us, the cold wall you’ve put up. So I close the gap.

I swing one leg over and settle on your lap before you can protest. My knees press against your sides, caging you in. I lean forward, hands braced on your shoulders, close enough that my breath fans over your lips.

“Don’t be mad at me,” I murmur, my tone low, coaxing.

You don’t answer, so I kiss you. Soft at first — just a test. Then again, deeper, until I feel your lips start to move with mine, even though I know you’re still trying to hold onto that anger.

“You’re still mad,” I whisper against your mouth, smiling just a little, because I can feel you breaking. My hands slide to the back of your neck, pulling you in as I kiss you harder, my hips shifting just enough to make you lose focus.

Every kiss is an apology and a dare all at once — forgive me, I’m not stopping until you do.

And when you finally sigh into my mouth, your hands gripping my waist, I know I’ve won.