Author's Note: For the longest time, I've been thinking about how I never finished this collection even though I only had two more stories to go. So this is my most recent attempt, six years after the last one.

[04/04/22]

We were worlds apart.

The flashes go off around him, blinding him into next week and pushing a lone drop of sweat down the bridge of his nose. His shoulders are pinched tight, face set in stone as he concentrates on not following its trail down the front of her silky, open blouse.

She laughs beneath him, fingers pinching his sides and breath tickling his neck enough that a shiver runs up his spine and he almost drops her, then. There is a flurry of activity around them, people from hair and make-up and stage crew going about their day as the photographer paces all around them, shooting them from every humanly possible angle; a treat for that year's most notable "thirty under thirty" segment.

"Mr. Ishida, please give us a smile. I'm begging here."

"Just relax," she tells him, and he hates that he can smell her lip-gloss from this distance. "This is supposed to be fun!"

"I am relaxed," he says, biting down the urge to bring her closer. He's already so dizzy.

"You're not," she breathes out, ignoring his complaints.

"Can you stop squirming?"

"Just follow my lead."

She doesn't warn him or the crew, just grabs him by the collar and pulls him to her, crashing her lips to his in a kiss that will surely bruise. Yamato is vaguely aware of the gasps, the way the photographer seems to multiply by ten and begins shooting all around them, shouting instructions and numerous forms of encouragement at them.

It is the way her hand opens wide against his chest and she pulls at his bottom lip between her teeth, the smirk on her only visible because he is too stunned to close his eyes. She's laughing again, eyes sparkling with mischief and delight as he runs a nervous hand through his hair, pushing it back and undoing a morning's worth of work from the hairdressers.

He becomes like clay under her hands, letting her lead and twist him into ridiculous poses and for the next two hours and he almost does forget they're not alone. But then the lights are on and its as if the world has restarted and everyone is busy again, loud and fussing over him and her separately, singing praises as they push them to get out of those ridiculous outfits.

He can still feel the weight of her against his fingertips, his head is still heavy with her scent. He's thinking maybe he'll see her again, maybe the electricity that ran through him was real, and maybe he should ask her out.

She's talking to someone near the door; he's tall and almost as pretty as she is. He watches him tuck his dark hair behind his ear, slender hands with long fingers decorated tastefully with silver rings. He sees it almost before it happens, how her pretty mouth curls deliciously, her fingers tugging him by the collar and pulling him easily down to her height. The kiss she gives him is met gladly by him and how lovely she looks when she leans her cheek into his open palm.

"I can't wait to see how the pictures turn out!"

"I'm sure they'll be impeccable, as always."

She doesn't stop say good-bye and he can still taste her in the back of his tongue. For the rest of that day, every part of his body, from the tips of his fingers to the ends of his hair ache with thoughts of her.