We've kissed before but this feels like the first. I can't even remember what kissing him felt like before. All I have in my mind is him, now, face determined, biting his lip. He won't back down before me, even when I invade his personal space, and that's enough to entice me, wrapping my arms around him. He stiffens in my arms, surprised, never expecting things to take this turn.

He says my name, softly, surprised and worried. Questioning.

I just smirk at him, and lower my mouth to his. Any worries I might feel about him not kissing back this time are gone as he rises to meet me, almost standing on tiptoes, his arms coming up to wind around my neck, that damnable gunblade dropping to the floor with a ring and clash of metal. I hold him tighter as he tries to pull away to pick it up.

"No," I tell him softly, "Don't ruin this." And I kiss him again, lost in him. My hand slides into his hair, spider-silk soft between my fingers, and he presses against me after a moment's hesitation.

He pulls back, finally, and I reach up to trace my fingers along his scar, reminding me of my claim on him. He smiles and for once, he isn't questioning me, the moment, or himself.

I worked so hard to get here, to be by his side after all that happened, all that I did to him. It's taken me ten years to get back to this point with him. I'd only do it for him. They might as well tattoo "willing slave of Squall Leonhart" on my head, only it's already there in the scar he gave me.

His hand finds mine, squeezes gently, and then he's drawing me off, pulling me away and inside. Ten years. Nobody else would be able to istand/i him and his silence that long.

But I think I like it more this way. He'd be out of character if he actually said anything.