Kissing Andy is dangerous. Not in the immediate sense, but long term.
Kissing Andy is heady, smoky, with a little bit of a burn that comes from all the bourbon she’s been knocking back tonight. The liquor lingering on her tongue leaves Nile’s mouth tingling - nothing to get tipsy off of, just a bit of a taste to remind her of the sweet buzz that alcohol brings.
No, it’s Andy that leaves her tipsy, sends a fluttery warmth spreading out from where their lips and tongues are touching to the top of her head and the tips of her toes and finally pooling in her center. It’s electric, like the cheesiest romantic movies or cringiest bodice ripper novels always make it out to be.
Nile’s always thought that was just a bunch of bullshit. Now she’s reeling, cause she’s been kissing all the wrong people.
But kissing Andy - touching Andy, fucking Andy, like she so desperately wants to, is dangerous. Because Nile will never get enough. Because Andy will never let her get even close. Because Nile is still raw and open and fresh, her heart on her sleeve and desperate to give pieces away and let others in. Because Andy is all sharp edges and brick walls and years and years and years of history, of layers of trauma and triumphs that Nile will never catch up on until after Andy’s long gone.
That’s the scariest part. Andy’s hourglass is running out of sand, and Nile’s is still filling up.
Yet here she is, tumbling into the bed of the motel room they’re sharing, kissing Andy with abandon. Because she’s fucking gone already. Hook, line, and sinker, she’s in love with Andromache of Scythia, and she’s gonna kiss every single inch of the woman until she’s good and drunk on her. She’s going to take as much as Andy will let her, because Nile’s not the kind to run away from danger.