That's How it Happens

29. Almost

They stumbled into the guest house like they'd just robbed the manor blind – arms full of popcorn, mismatched snacks, and two bottles of the Lemon Kiss. Jackson had tried to intercept their escape in the kitchen, holding a jar of pickles and a half-eaten baguette as if he had the same idea.

"Movie night?" he asked, already reaching for the popcorn. Ainsley smacked his hand away.

"No," they said in perfect unison, then bolted toward the door, laughing like they were kids again.

Now they were in sweats, curled up on opposite ends of the couch. The wine sat between them, glowing faintly in the candlelight. The popcorn bowl was precariously balanced on the cushion divide, like a peace treaty neither wanted to sign.

The kiss hadn't been mentioned. Not once.

But it was there. Thick in the air. Like a third person in the room, breathing louder than the movie.

Ainsley could feel it pressing against her chest, heavy and hot. She hoped Leo wouldn't say anything. Not tonight. Not when things felt normal again. But every time he shifted, every time he opened his mouth, her heart jumped.

Leo opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Then sighed and reached for the wine.

He poured himself a glass, took a sip, and made a face. "Okay, I'm sorry, but what is this?"

Ainsley blinked. "Lemon wine."

"Lemon wine?" he repeated, like she'd just offered him moonshine. "That's not a thing."

"It's a thing. It's our thing. It's called Lemon Kiss. It's made from the lemons people bring to the ball."

He took another sip, then stared at the glass like it had betrayed him. "It tastes like sunshine and regret."

She snorted. "It's delicious – refreshing."

"It's confusing. Like you."

She raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"I thought you said this was a western?"

"It is," Ainsley said, reaching for the popcorn.

"There's no shootout. No saloon. No one's even wearing a hat."

"There are horses," she argued, pointing her hand at the TV.

"There are goats, Ains."

She turned to him, deadpan. "There's dirt," she said as if he were an idiot.

He raised an eyebrow, and she rolled her eyes. "They're rustic."

He laughed. "It's a good thing you're pretty."

She threw a pillow at him.

He caught it, then laughed. "Violence? Really?"

She narrowed her eyes at him.

"You're lucky I'm too tired to retaliate."

With a wicked grin, she threw another.

He lunged.

Suddenly, he was tickling her, and she shrieked, laughing, trying to escape. They tumbled across the couch in a flurry of limbs and laughter until he ended up on top of her, breathless.

They froze.

Her chest rose and fell beneath his. Their eyes locked. The laughter faded.

Ainsley could feel the kiss again – like it was sitting on top of her, staring her down. She didn't want to name it. Naming it made it real. And real meant risk. She didn't want to talk about it. Not now. Not when his face was this close and her heart was this loud.

Couldn't he hear it? It was practically screaming.

Leo stared at her, wondering if he should say something. He wanted to. He really did. But not tonight. Not when they'd finally found their way back to being... friends.

She reached up and booped his nose. "Boop," she said with a grin.

He cracked up, rolled off her, and collapsed beside her on the couch.

"You drive me insane," he muttered, voice muffled by a cushion.

"Tell me about it," she mumbled.

"Take that back," he said, poking her.

She burst into laughter again, yelling, "Stop!"

"Okay, okay. I take it back," she said, breathlessly, chuckling. She snorted, clasping her hand over her mouth.

"For such a sophisticated lady, you make the most unladylike noises."

Her eyes bulged, and he grinned. He leaned in, "It's a good thing, I find them... charmingly feral."

She shoved him, and he laughed. They stared at the ceiling for a bit, the silence not as oppressive as before.

In her wine-hazy state, she turned, curled up against him, her back to his chest. He began to move to get up. "Don't go," she whispered. "At least until I fall asleep."

He hesitated, then wrapped an arm loosely around her waist. "I'll stay. But if you snore, I'm recording it."

She chuckled, soft and sleepy. "I don't snore."

"Have you heard the noises you make when you're awake? I've heard you make this horrendous piglet noise several times since we got here. Is that your real laugh? Have you been lying to me this whole time? I feel like I barely know you."

She groaned. "Stop," she whined, chuckling."

"What? It's cute." She tried smacking him, but her hand just met air.

"You snore like a chainsaw in a wind tunnel."

"Liar."

"Drunken chainsaw," he corrected.

She laughed again, quieter this time, and nestled closer.

"I missed you," she whispered, nearly inaudible.

He didn't say anything else – it would have ruined it. She was already out, and the weight of the win was pulling him under, too. He let his eyes close, his breath syncing with hers.

And in the quiet, the kiss stayed unspoken.

But not forgotten.