After all, Jack is the one who is kissing me, and it tastes like fire and hops and hope. Jack is kissing me, a kiss like a question mark. Her mouth is hesitant against mine, and I know I should pull away. That’s the rule, that’s the bargain I’ve struck with myself. No kissing Jack. For her sake.

Except I’m so tired. Except I’m so lonely. Except here’s this woman who makes me feel so damn full. The cookie-cutter outline in my chest.

I answer the question on her lips with yes and please and more. I kiss her back because everything in my life is shit but this.

I boost myself up, and I wind my hands into her hair, and I kiss her like I know it’s going to hurt later. I kiss her like I don’t care. I feel like I’m back in the snow a year ago, tasting her for the first time, learning the press of her mouth and the sureness of her hands and the solidness of her body. It’s been a year since we’ve done this properly, but it feels like we’re remembering old choreography. It’s muscle memory, the way my arms circle her waist, the way her fingers weave into her hair, the way our chins tilt, the way we arch into each other.

She drops one hand gently to my waist, two fingers on the side of my throat, and she’s still kissing me carefully. I open my mouth just enough to press my tongue to that white scar, and Jack makes a soft sound in the back of her throat—because she’s secretly so soft. We both are.

My hands search for her softness, for the plush fat of her hip bones beneath her flannel. Suddenly, I don’t want careful. I want to kiss Jack while I can. Before I lose her again.

I pull her closer to me, until my back digs into the sink, until she’s pinning my body in place. I coax her mouth open and run the tip of my tongue along the roof of her mouth the way she likes. She goes boneless in my arms, one hand winding around my braid until she pulls, exposing the side of my throat. She kisses me there, with teeth. With her tongue. There’s nothing careful about it.

Jack kisses me into a knot that only she can untangle. She folds her body into mine, and time folds itself in half, until last Christmas feels like it was yesterday, like we’re picking things up exactly where we left them. We’re not kissing in a disgusting dive bar bathroom. We’re outside the Butch Oven, kissing in the snow. We’re in an empty bar, kissing in the dark over spiced eggnog. We’re in her Airstream, kissing like we have all the time in the world.