“You’re late,” she said.
Jeanine finally turned. Leo stood in the doorway of the balcony, his coat dripping onto her thrift-store rug, his dark curls plastered to his forehead. He was holding a brown paper bag and a single silver balloon that read 2024 in glittering letters.
The confession landed like a stone in still water. Ripples spread through the silence. Somewhere in the distance, a party horn blared, and someone laughed—a bright, careless sound. midnight kisses jeanine benedict
The sound of a key turning in the lock made her pulse skip. She didn’t turn around. She listened to the familiar rhythm of footsteps—one heavier than the other because of the old knee injury from a high school soccer game she hadn’t even been at (a story she’d heard so many times she could recite it in her sleep).
Leo took the final step. He was close enough now that Jeanine could smell the rain on his jacket, the coffee on his breath, the faint cedar of his soap. He didn’t touch her, but his presence was a warmth she could lean into. “You’re late,” she said
“I’m exactly on time.” He stepped closer, and the floorboards creaked under him. “It’s not midnight yet.”
“You love that about me.”
“Who said anything about scared?” Leo asked.