we are history

I don’t remember much of that evening, except for maybe the smell of pancakes and the look in his eyes while he leaned into me.

My brain was rushing to catch up with his arms around my waist, his chest heaving against mine and, oh god, his lips.

He was kissing me.

In the middle of the kitchen, hot like the cake in the pan, sweet as the cherry jam, I tasted a bit of his passion.

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