There’s a moment right before two people kiss.
Not the kiss itself.
Not the part where everything goes hazy and desperate.
I mean the pause.
That half-second where you both realize:
Oh.
We are absolutely about to cross a line.
And that is where I live.
My address is that moment.
My zip code is don’t say it out loud or the universe might hear you and blush.
She walked in like she owned Friday night.
Lavender perfume that didn’t ask permission.
Eyes like she learned how to sin directly from the confessional booth.
She didn’t sit next to me.
She took the seat—like the world was built to tilt toward her.
She said,
“You always look like you’re thinking about something dangerous.”
I said,
“That’s because I usually am.”
Cue that smile.
The kind that tastes like trouble and confession and “Lord forgive me tomorrow, but not tonight.”
We didn’t rush anything.
No grabbing.
No fumbling.
Just the slow gravitational pull of two planets deciding the tides were getting boring.
Her hand found mine on the table.
Not intertwined.
Not claiming.
Just… resting.
Like she was trying to memorize the heartbeat in my palm.
And I swear the room fell quiet.
Not because anyone noticed us.
But because we noticed us.
The way her knee brushed mine.
The way the bartender kept smirking like he’d seen this movie before.
The way neither of us moved away.
There are entire wars fought with less strategy.
And then she leaned in.
Not to kiss me.
To whisper:
“Relax. I’m not here to ruin your life.
Just to make you think about it.”
And I laughed.
Because damn.
She knew exactly what she was doing.
Not lust.
Not love.
Just that dangerous in-between space where the heart and body hold a knife to each other’s throat and say:
Don’t move.
I want to remember this part.
If you know, you know.
And if you don’t?
You’ll learn.
Trust me.
Saint Dirty Face 