Maya nodded, unable to speak.
He moved to the bed and kissed her then. Not her forehead. Not her cheek. Her mouth.
It was not a cautious kiss. It was not a reckless one either. It felt like the end of a restraint that had been ethical until it became impossible. His hand came up to cradle her jaw, warm and shaking. Maya held his wrist and kissed him back with everything she had been too afraid to admit. The room disappeared. The machines, the stale hospital air, the fluorescent light—all of it fell away under the simple human fact of wanting and being wanted.
When they pulled apart, Taylor kept his forehead resting lightly against hers.
“Our six months are up next week,” Maya whispered.
He closed his eyes.
Contract. Papers. Terms. The architecture of the lie that had delivered them here.
“I know,” he said.
She searched his face. “So what happens now?”
