we were left breathless

by mistsplash

They've just become teenagers, fresh at thirteen, and suddenly the sky is brighter and everything shines. Everyone tells them that thirteen is the most eye-opening age, and of course, they succumb to these rumors and are giddy with anticipation, wondering what their thirteenth year has in stock for them.

She smiles at him, a bubbly laugh escaping her throat, and he thinks it's a wonderful sound. He grins back, still drinking in her appearance—taller, still tomboyish, rough frame, dirty sneakers, grass-stained jeans, and warm, sparkling cinnamon eyes that are beginning to turn more brown than red. He thinks she looks cuter than usual, and he doesn't blush or turn away after he notices this, because he's thirteen now, and thirteen-year-olds are allowed to think like this.

Her giggles have faded into a small, serene smile, and before he knows exactly what he's doing, he leans over and steals a quick, impulsive kiss that he knows is her first. She's quiet, he's quiet, and suddenly they're aware that no one is saying anything—she bids him a hasty goodbye and rushes out of sight.

He tries to bring up the topic several times over the next week, but the words get caught in his throat and he wonders if this is a part of being thirteen, as well. She doesn't even try to talk to him, and he wonders if the others have noticed their lapse in conversation or contact in general.

But a weekend and a promise of no more random kissing later, the two are joined at the hip, playing soccer and disappearing at the oddest of times and holding hands when they think no one's looking.

(they did say no more random kissing, right?)

Author's Notes:

I find myself hating that last line with a passion. Please review. :)