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So much the better if Galvin thought she'd refuse him, because Arista was ashamed to think how far beyond midnight she was willing to give him. As she pressed herself into the kiss, one hand curled into the nape of his neck, she tried not to dwell on the rightness, tried to quiet her head by telling herself it wasn't real. It was the last few seconds of the year no one paid attention to, that no one would remember, too busy ushering in the start of the coming one. Nothing one did in the interim counted. It wasn't real, no matter how her heart pounded or blood pulsed.

Then the sensation came at her like a punch, setting a fire in her, unleashing a hunger she didn't understand. It made her feel as if she were teetering on the edge of something, about to tip over into the unknown. She clutched harder at him, taking Galvin in as if he were more than the air she needed to breathe. No one had ever kissed or been kissed like this, Arista knew that much with her every fibre.

When the time came, painfully, to splinter apart, her chest was heaving as she fought to catch her breath. Collapsing against his chest was as much pleasure as it was a necessity to remaining upright, though a small smile full of glorious satiation curved her lips. She angled her head up from its comfortable resting place to look at him, which was the precise moment her hands went slack. Though her eyes were slow to snap to alert from their lazy, half-slitted gaze, her jaw began to drop.

Of course she couldn't quiet her head. It did count, it was real, it was too real, and she started to shake her head at the realisation of what she'd done, of the line she'd—they'd—crossed. Automatically, she was straightening, shifting away from him as though that would erase the last few minutes.