I swallow. Fuck. I’m relieved. I’m worried by how relieved I am.

“And even if I was out on a date with him, you have no right to—”

I kiss her, cutting off the rest of her indignation. Cassia freezes. Familiar electricity arcs between us, snapping and crackling with its potency and power.

When Cassia starts kissing me back, I groan. Wrap my arms around her and haul her closer to my body, right here on the sidewalk.

I tighten my grip on her jacket—my jacket—and that knowledge mixes with the desire circulating through my body. I’ve never kissed a girl wearing my clothes before. She was wearing my sweatshirt the first time we got off together in my driveway. It added an extra layer of intimacy then, and it does the same now. There’s never been another girl I wanted to wear my clothes before. Just her.

She’s so responsive, so eager. I just know, somehow, that it wouldn’t feel like this with anyone else. I knew it when I kissed her in eighth grade, and I feel the same way now.

Her expression is dazed when we separate. It makes me want to start kissing her all over again, to keep that expression on her face and know that I was the one who put it there. I wait for the questions. The What did that mean? and Why did you do that?

Instead, she simply smiles. “Is that a yes on the waffle?”

I grab her hand and pull her toward the waffle place. It’s warm inside and smells incredible. I haven’t been here since last winter. There’s a young family sitting by the windows, but the shop is otherwise empty.

Cassia walks right up to the counter and rattles off her order.

I raise my eyebrows when she looks to me. “You come here a lot?”

“It’s on all my siblings’ chore charts as a reward. So…yes.”

I shake my head at that, marveling over just how different our families are before ordering one of their premade options.

Cassia argues when I go to pay, but I elbow her out of the way. Thanks to the illicit Friday night fights I spent the last couple of months participating in, I’ve got a decent amount of money set aside. And it occurs to me, as I hand my card over, that there’s nothing I’d rather spend it on than her.

“I’m super excited for the game tomorrow night.” It’s not until the girl working the register says that while handing back my card that I aim any focus at her. She’s on the younger side, probably a freshman or a sophomore. “I traded shifts just so I could go.”

“It should be a good game,” I say.

“You’re playing so well this season. It’s amazing to watch.”