Now I'd driven to an arcade on a Saturday just to make them smile. Now I was standing in a closet that cost more than most houses, holding a girl who ran a multinational corporation, and all I wanted was to make sure she was okay, that she got enough sleep and remembered to eat lunch and didn't carry the weight of the world on seventeen-year-old shoulders that were strong but not superhuman.
I was so completely screwed it wasn't even funny.
"Maybe," I admitted, the word coming out more honest than I'd intended.
Vivienne pulled back, looked up at me with those impossible purple eyes that saw too much and forgave too little.
"Maybe is good enough." She reached up with careful fingers, fixed my collar where it had gotten twisted during our makeout session, her touch gentle and somehow intimate despite its practical purpose. "For now."
"What happens when maybe isn't good enough anymore?"
