Hi guys! Welcome to the sequel to Won't Always Lose. Hope you enjoy!
P.S. you can find the prequel on my profile :)
MERCEDES' POV
The thing about falling in love with Sam was that she never actually meant to—not the first time, and not this time. When he'd called her after he'd arrived to New York and she agreed to meet him, she'd had nothing but friendly intentions—innocent. And for a while, they had been doing okay. They texted and hung out like buddies do and nothing seemed out of line. She wouldn't lie, he was more gorgeous than ever now that he was older and it was impossible for her to ignore the immediate nostalgia and warmth that took her over at first sight of him again. She remembered everything, as if she could ever forget. Being with Sam had been the best four years of her life and she wouldn't deny that. But when the time came to separate and their relationship failed, after so long, what else could do she do but move on? She never expected to see him again and when she did, from then on she had a more than difficult time not thinking about him. Admittedly though, finding out he was also dating someone else made it a lot easier to shake the aforementioned nostalgia and warmth before it all crushed her. So they were friends, good friends. It wasn't until she suddenly found herself calling him first when she had great news to share instead of her boyfriend, until she found herself smiling and daydreaming when she found his scent in her clothes after they'd spent time together, until she found that her days were instantly improved by the simple sight of his name on her phone when it rang and she smiled like a child being given their favorite candy—until she was doing so many of the things she did when they were still together—it wasn't until then that she began to feel guilty. She was dating someone else and so was he. She knew what it was like to be cheated on and she would never cheat on someone nor would she ever be the other woman. And though she and Sam hadn't yet done anything that physically and truly warranted guilt, she felt guilty anyway. Because though it couldn't be seen with the eye, she knew what she was feeling. She recognized what it felt like to be in love with Sam. It was beautiful, but the guilt that came with it this time around was crippling.
She only hoped her guilt would be enough to stop her now, as she stood in front of him, both of them soaked in their wet clothes, the towel she'd been playfully drying his hair with falling to the ground when he suddenly rested his hand on her cheek, warming her skin the way it always used to. His eyes locked with hers. And she knew exactly where the gesture would lead if she didn't stop him, which is what she was supposed to do.
Right?
The problem was, if she was being honest, she didn't know if she wanted to stop him. Looking at his lips, she wondered if they still felt the same—if they could still send chills to her soul. Stopping him would mean she would never find out. But not stopping him would make her like Derrick—a cheater. How could she ever become that person? The answer was she couldn't. She couldn't cheat, she couldn't do that to anyone, she knew what it could do to a person. She knew it could destroy them. And she wasn't prepared for the horrible things she would have to endure afterwards: the biting guilt, the painful expression on Luke's face when she told him. She wasn't sure she would be able to take it. And that was what she was reminding herself of at this very moment.
Funny how just the gentle caress of his thumb against her cheek could make her forget it all. Suddenly her thoughts were battling—half of them telling her no, urging her to walk away. And the other half encouraging her—using all of the beautiful memories she had of them together as swords to fight; reminding her how powerful and sweet their love once was and warning her of how shameful it would be if she didn't find out if it was still blooming. It fought hard and with such strategy, growing louder and louder until the other half was defenseless, becoming but a whisper, just as quiet as the two small words that escaped her before she could stop them
"Kiss me."