He stood in the doorway, keys in hand, already formulating the words: I should go, early meeting tomorrow, thanks for dinner. But when he opened his mouth, she stepped closer, her hand on his chest, and tilted her head. Before he could blink, her lips were on his, soft at first, then deeper, hungrier, her tongue sliding past his lower lip in a silent refusal to let him finish.
The keys clattered to the floor. He reached for her, intending to pull back, to say wait, but her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him in place, and the protest died in his throat. This wasn’t a kiss. It was a rebuttal—sharp, clear, unapologetic.
When she finally pulled away, her lips swollen, her eyes dark, he tried again: “I really—” but she shushed him, pressing a finger to his mouth. “Goodnight can wait,” she said, and kissed him again, slower this time, as if to make sure he understood.
He didn’t pick up the keys. Didn’t mention the meeting. Just let her lead him back to the couch, because some words don’t need to be said—and some goodnights are better left unfinished.