Tessa, to put it politely, was a practiced kisser. Under the bleachers at pep rally (because did anyone actually watch that shit?), in the back of a car, pressed up against the wall outside the movie theater downtown, she’d taken to it quickly and once she’d found out she was good at it she’d reveled in using it the way she’d used magic or her bent for turning a phrase in English class. She’d known just how to touch, just how to pull and push and draw closer and turn away, and she was proud of the way she’d managed to size up her partner, to know what they’d want before she’d even touched them. Even now, she didn’t regret those kisses. She didn’t wish she could wrap up that time and give it back to herself, the retroactive ability to keep herself in stasis until this moment, this first kiss that meant something more. Regrets just weren’t really what she did, not the way other people had them anyway, mostly because she didn’t see the point in lying to herself. That was what she’d wanted then. It had nothing to do with what she wanted now.
Still, that history, that practice in technique and control, meant that she had never really let someone else take the lead in a kiss. There were boys that she’d let think themselves in control, but it had always been just part of the game, and here she’d gone and surrendered that control without even really thinking about it, as natural as breathing. That lack of calculation in leaving the second kiss deliberately mild meant that, for the first time in a long time, her partner’s shift was unexpected. She made a not-entirely-dignified noise of surprised pleasure as Patrick shifted his hand to her hair and deepened the second kiss, well, who would have thought, flashing through her mind, before she regained her bearings and moved against him in perfect agreement with the arm around her waist and the hand in her hair. It wasn’t the best kiss, technically speaking, everything about it too raw to prevent the occasional awkward movement, the fingers curled too urgently in her hair not to snag. It was, however, the first kiss in a very long time to knock her off balance. She found that, on the whole, she preferred it this way.
Then it was his turn to break away and speak to someone still reeling. She was pretty sure she caught the words ”Me too,” but she wasn’t really listening. Instead, she was looking at the smile, wider and more unrestrained than any she had ever seen, on his face. She answered it with one of her own, fierce and joyful and clearly more than a little pleased with herself.
His explanation of his earlier fear dimmed the smile slightly, and she narrowed her eyes slightly. Your being scared I would hurt you by leaving you is not exactly making me jump for joy here either, she thought, then, remembering her periods of wandering off, her carelessness with people in general, she conceded mentally, but it's probably not entirely unfair that it occurred to you. “First of all,” she began, “even if I didn’t,” she paused, unsure of what to call the sudden shift from friendship into the unknown, “feel like this,” she illustrated her point with another kiss, quicker and more playful than the first two, her teeth nipping gently at his lower lip as she pulled away, “I wouldn’t have left you.” Her tone, light until now, grew serious with her next words, and she fixed him with a rare level of concentration. “Also, did it occur to you, that I might feel the same way about losing you? That if you had gone off and handed yourself over to the archangel I would not have stopped until I found a way to get Michael out of you, no matter what doors I had to go knocking on?” She held up a hand to forestall any protests, “I’m not asking for some whole talk on this. I’m just saying, I think we can come to an agreement here. You promise not to do anything insanely self-sacrificial and I will promise to stick around to make it worth your while. Okay?”