My ‘You Go Girl’ playlist is thumping in my ears as I climb up the steps at the Lucien-L’Allier metro stop. The address JP texted me is in Griffintown, a neighbourhood down by the water at the edge of the city. I spot a few pieces of street art as I’m walking, but I don’t stop to check them out.

I’m on a mission.

I sent JP a text just as my bus pulled into Montreal today, asking him what he was up to. When he said he was rehearsing some songs at his apartment, I asked if I could come over. He replied with his address and a long string of thumbs-up emojis.

He’s a big fan of emojis. It’s kind of adorable. He’s kind of adorable, and I’m going to tell him just that.

Well, maybe not with those exact words. I’m aiming to get the point across by grabbing his face and kissing him like the world is ending. That’s the plan, at least, and I’m forcing myself not to rethink it. I’m forcing myself to let the sound that’s been building inside me for weeks whenever he’s around finally crawl up my throat and be heard.

I might crash. I might burn. This might turn out to be Prom-posal: Take Two, or a fiasco of Halloween-level proportions, but as I lay awake in the spare bedroom of my dad’s apartment last night, I realized something: I don’t care anymore. I’ve survived two epic boy-related mistakes, and if this ends up being number three, I’ve already got proof that I’m strong enough to make it to the other side. If I have to lay down my weapons and be Awkward Shy Girl Molly forever, I will. I know that role inside out, and it’s not the worst one in the world.

But today I’m going fishing for a new role.

I can’t help thinking about how many Sounds of the Station members would kill to be in my shoes right now, standing at the door of an apartment building and waiting for JP Bouchard-Guindon to come bounding down the stairs. He really does bound as he flies down the last few steps, man-bun bouncing on top of his head, smile as lopsided as his floppy sweater.

It’s the Ferris Bueller sweater.

“Salut, ma belle,” he greets me. “Come in, come in.”

He glances up and down the street before he pulls the door shut behind me and leads me up the narrow stairs. When I ask him about his stealth-mode behaviour, he explains that the band’s rehearsal space is getting stalked by more reporters than ever. It’s only a matter of time before they start following Matt or JP home.

The building is old and cramped, like most places in Montreal. There are only three units, each one taking up an entire floor. Matt and JP’s place has that typical occupied-by-men smell, but it’s tidy by bachelor standards, and filled with knick-knacks that make it look like it’s inhabited by a mad scientist, a frat boy, and a kitschy old lady all at once.

“Is that...a bong?” I ask, nodding over to a poorly-crafted glass dragon sitting on the windowsill, clutching a long pipe between its claws.

JP dashes over and grabs it, holding it up like a trophy. “Behold, the Dragon Bong!”

“It’s really ugly,” I tell him, barely holding my laughter in.

He looks offended. “This is one of my possessions les plus précieux! I won this in a bet when I was sixteen.”

I gesture around the apartment. “Do all of these possessions belong to you?”

“Most of them, yes. Matt hates when I leave shit lying around, but I have too many projects going on to keep them all in my room.”

His ‘projects’ are all bits of minor machinery in the middle of being repaired or remodelled, lying in heaps on side tables and shelves. Standing in the room feels like getting a look inside JP’s head: a million ideas all chugging and churning, the flash and spark of something new catching your eye no matter which direction you look. I could spend hours letting him show me how everything works.

I don’t have hours, though. I have this moment—this moment before my nerve fails me, this moment that will determine every moment after it.

“I...I came here to tell you something.”

He sets his hideous bong down and takes the few steps back to me across the room. “You did?”

I nod, suddenly wishing I’d planned this better, written a speech or something.

“How about I take your coat?” JP prompts, his voice softening as I struggle. “Then you can tell me something.”

I reach for the buttons of my black pea coat. JP’s eyes stay fixed on my fingers until I start pushing the coat down my shoulders. He steps behind me to help slide it off, like some kind of gallant footman. His knuckles brush the bare skin below the sleeves of my t-shirt. When my coat’s finally gone, I feel like I’ve been stripped of way more than just one layer.

I don’t turn around as he hangs the coat up by the door. I just stand there, rubbing my hands over the goose bumps that are rising on my arms.

“You wanted to tell me something?”

He’s behind me again, close enough that his voice makes my spine stiffen, but still I don’t turn around.

“I don’t know how to say it,” I admit. “I don’t know if it’s something you can say.”

“Can you draw it?”

I glance back over my shoulder, just far enough that I can catch his eye. He’s so close to me now, still and taunt, like a hunter approaching a rabbit.

“Draw it?”

He reaches for my hand, prying it off my bicep and tugging until I’m forced to turn around. He spreads my fingers and places my palm on his chest. I feel the heat there, just like that day in my apartment so many weeks ago.

“Draw it.”

He bends my fingers closed one by one, leaving just the pointer extended. He starts to drag my hand in patterns along his chest, so my finger traces circles and lines against the soft wool of his sweater. It’s so ridiculous, so silly and weird—so JP and Molly. I take control of my hand to trace a smiley face between his pecs.

We both laugh, but not hard enough to break the tension. If anything, it intensifies.

I trace shapes he’ll recognize: hearts and music notes, stars and crescent moons. I draw pictures he won’t understand: two little girls hiding under a bed together, an empty classroom with a single student bent over an easel, a sea of laughing faces as a beautiful boy shakes his head ‘no.’ I cover his chest in the story of the moments since I met him: the Metro Records logo, a hummingbird made of glass, a Pac-Man game covered in fire, and a wild-haired girl holding her own heart out with both her hands.

I trail my finger to the top of his sweater, up the skin of his neck—smooth at first, then pebbled with stubble. I trace the lines of his jaw, the planes of his cheeks. I brush the bridge of his nose and the angles of his eyebrows. He lets his lids fall closed, and as if I’m stroking the most delicate of bird’s wings, I run the very tip of my finger across the swoop of his eyelashes.

When I reach his lips, he lets his lower one droop under my touch, his breath and his skin hot against me, soft and firm all at once. He keeps his eyes closed, but when my hand finally stills, he wraps his own around it and presses my finger hard against his lips, kissing the pad of my fingerprint with a desperate sort of urgency.

He lowers both our hands and finally looks at me with hooded eyes. I know as an absolute fact that right then, there is no other girl in the world but me, and there are no other lips than his.

Our kiss is a crescendo.

It’s a sound so loud it shatters the earth around us until we break away from the rest of the world. There’s just the two of us, caught in each other’s arms and lost in each other’s need. He coaxes my body like a conductor controls an orchestra, moving his mouth on mine in ways that make me give up sweet high notes and trembling low bass calls.

We kiss until I’m dizzy, until air finally feels more important than filling my lungs up with him. I gasp as I break the contact, my fists balled around the neck of his sweater and his tangled up in my hair.

He mutters a long string of French that’s too fast and too profane for me to fathom its meaning, but the harsh consonants and the way he curls his lip as he breathes them out makes my thighs clench.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time, Molly.” He presses his forehead to mine. “For a very long time.”

My name sounds more accented than ever on his lips: Moe-LEE.

“Why didn’t you?”

He has his eyes closed, but I keep mine open, staring at the way his eyelashes rest against his cheeks. The fine, dark hairs are the most delicate thing about him—a glimpse of fragility in this man who’s otherwise a churning twister of energy.

“I didn’t know if this was what you wanted. Is this what you want? On the phone...The roles, you know?”

I move my hands up to grip his shoulders. “I’m...thinking about auditioning for a new one.”

“Ah, ouais?”

“Yes. What about you?”

He tips my head back and kisses me again, harder this time. When I moan into his mouth, it’s like I’ve set something off inside him, like a fuse was burning down between us and finally hit the sticks of dynamite at the end. My back hits the wall behind me. JP presses his body against mine as he tugs my hands above my head and holds them there, moaning as much as I do when his thigh slips between my legs.

I rock against him, the rough fabric of our jeans catching as I shamelessly grind on his leg. I don’t care if I look desperate. In that moment, I am desperate—desperate for more of his skin, more of his touch, more of the way he sucks my lip between his teeth and bites down on the tender flesh in a way that’s somehow both gentle and deliciously rough.

I’ve never burned like this before. It’s like blushing with my whole body, only I’m not embarrassed or ashamed right now. I’m like the hot centre of a planet surging toward its surface. Everywhere he touches me, I feel the heat swell and threaten to break through. I’m both terrified and mesmerized at the thought of what might happen when it finally does.

“Come with me.”

He doesn’t give me much of a choice, just lets my hands drop so he can grab me by the hips and hoist me up. My legs and arms wrap themselves around him on instinct. We keep kissing like it’s our life source as he walks us towards what must be his room. One hand digs into my ass as the other fumbles for the doorknob, and then I’m tumbling down onto his mattress while he looms over me, hips planted firmly between my parted thighs.

I can’t even bring myself to take in the details of his room. There’s just him, mouth stretched in a cat-like grin as he thumbs his bottom lip and stares down at me with explosive eyes.

“Molly Myers.” His voice is a rumble, his accent thick. “In my bed.”

It hits me, then—really hits me. We’re doing this. This is happening. I’m lying on a mattress with my chest heaving, staring up at JP Bouchard-Guindon.

He bends at the waist and leans over the bed until his forearms are bracketing my head. The weight of him on top of me sends my breath rushing out in a whoosh. He smells like the same mix of laundry and sunshine he always has, still makes me feel as safe as my bedroom walls do, but my nerves get the best of me.

This is all so much. I twist my face away when he tries to kiss me.

“W—wait. Please wait.”

He’s off me in a second, rolling to sit up on the bed and stare down at me with a brow bent in concern. I scramble up to a seated position and hug my knees to my chest. He leans closer, swiping a lock of hair from my forehead so he can catch my eye.

“Molly, what’s wrong? Would you like to stop? We can stop.”

His voice is so soft right now. I shake my head to answer his question, and the hair he moved slips back into my eyes. We both let out a laugh that’s barely more than an exhale. The mood eases a little.

“I want to keep going,” I assure him, flipping the hair back out of the way. “It just...It really hit me, what it means to be doing this. This is a big thing for me.”

His eyes get wide, and then he nods a few times. “You haven’t done this before.”

“What?” My spine stiffens and I let go of my knees, sitting up ramrod straight. “No. No, no, no. That’s not what I meant.”

He gives me a look that’s open and honest. There’s no judgement there, no fear or alarm. “It’s okay if this is your first time. It’s only as big or as small of a deal as you want it to be. I just want you to know you can trust me enough to tell me.”

I can feel how red my face has gotten, but he cuts right through the embarrassment, neutralizing it with his acceptance. I reach for his hand on top of the blankets.

“Thank you for that. It’s not my first time, though. Really. What I meant is that even though I’m trying to let go of all the rules I’ve made for myself, I’ve followed them for a really long time. It’s still scary to break them, and you are...you are the definition of breaking my rules, JP. On top of that, you’re my friend. I don’t have a lot of those, and it would a be a big deal to lose one if whatever we’re doing here goes wrong.”

I take a deep breath. JP must sense that I’m not done ranting, because all he does is squeeze my fingers as he sits there waiting.

“Also, I...I’ve had sex before. Several times. Really.” My next sentence comes out in a gush of words that get faster and faster until they all run into each other. “It’s just it was all with one person, and we didn’t even do much, and I’m worried I’m going to be a disappointment, or that I’ll need to stop or go slow or something dumb like that, and I’ll ruin everything between us because whatifI’mbadatsex?”

There. I said it. I just made the un-sexiest declaration possible. If JP had a boner before, it’s definitely deflated by now.

“Molly.” He tugs on my hand until I look at him. “I’m scared too, you know.”

A frantic bark of laughter slips out of my mouth.

“C’est vrai! It’s true!” he insists. “I don’t want to fuck this up either, Molly. Like you said, we’re friends. I don’t want to lose that. I’m serious, and...and I don’t really have a lot of experience taking things seriously. So yeah, I’m scared. I’m scared to break the rules with you.”

He moves our intertwined hands from the mattress and onto my thigh, where his thumb brushes over the seam of my jeans, stroking a rhythm that’s comforting and electrifying all at once.

“As for sex...” He clears his throat. “I don’t think it’s possible you’re going to be bad it, and going slow isn’t dumb. It sounds very smart, actually. We can take this whole thing slow, let ourselves get used to it.”

I might as well get everything out on the table now.

“I don’t...I don’t know if I’m ready to actually have sex today.”

Molly the Boner Killer strikes again.

“I want to,” I rush to assure him. “I want...everything with you, JP. I just might need to work up to that.”

I let out a little squeak when he lunges forward to pull me into his lap. I’m straddling him now, his arms locked tight around me as he smiles up into my face. He’s like a heat lamp when he beams at me that way—warm, inviting, and hot enough to make me consider taking my clothes off.

“That, ma belle, sounds like an excellent idea.”

His lips find mine, and we let our bodies take over until I realize I’m grinding my hips against him as his groans slip down my throat. We’re chest to chest, as close as we can possibly be in this position. He starts to trail wet, hungry kisses down my neck as soon as I pull my mouth away from his. My hands reach for his hair, and I yank the elastic out so I can bury them in the dark strands. He hisses against my skin.

“Holy fuck,” I breathe. “It feels so good when you do that.”

He pauses. “Molly, are we going to start ‘working up’ to things today? I need to know. Now.”

His voice is strained. I realize his whole body is tensed up. He’s a hair trigger, and I’m the one who’s going to pull it.

“Now,” I repeat. “Today. Yes. Now.”

I’m on my back before I realize what’s happening. The heavy weight of him presses into me again, leaving me breathless. My ankles lock behind him, my heels digging into his ass, and he nuzzles against the soft skin behind my ear before he tugs my earlobe between his teeth. I swear again.

Gravity shifts a second time as he rolls us over. He stretches out on his back beneath me, my thighs on either side of him. He tugs me forward so he can grip my waist, and then slides his hands under my t-shirt. My spine arches reflexively when his rough palms brush my lower back. My pelvis flexes against his.

“Câlice.” His face looks almost pained as he mutters something in French I can’t make out.

The sight fills me with a rush of power that’s foreign but immediately addictive, like getting hooked on the first hit of a new liquid in your veins. I tug my lip between my teeth as I flex against him, rolling my hips to press the part of me that’s aching for him against the part of him that’s straining for me.

“Fuck, Molly. Now you’re just teasing me.”

I let out a throaty laugh that’s more seductive than any sound I thought I could make. His hands don’t seem to know where they want to be most; they slide over the curve of my ass, dip into the waistband of my jeans, and slip back up under my shirt. The t-shirt is loose enough that my boobs are practically in his face when I’m bent over like this. I catch him staring at my chest like he’s found the key to eternal salvation. His fingers brush the back of my bra and then still as he glances at my face for permission.

I want his mouth on my breasts so bad I can practically feel it already, so I straighten up enough to pull my t-shirt over my head and unhook my bra. The pretty peach lace is one of the nicest things I own, but I don’t waste time giving him a chance to appreciate it.

“Christe alors.”

His voice gets almost savage once I’m finally bared to him. I don’t have time to feel self-conscious before he’s yanking me down and trailing frantic kisses over every inch of my chest. I cry out when his tongue flicks my nipple. He lets out a devilish chuckle and does it again and again until I’m shaking and thrusting uncontrollably against the ridge in his jeans.

“Get on your back.”

He shifts me around until I’m obeying his order, lying on my back on the bed while he props himself on his side next to me and trails his fingers over my skin.

“Do you want to keep going?”

The whimper that goes along with my nod is answer enough.

“What do you want, Molly? What do you want today?”

“I want...I want you to make me come.” I should feel embarrassed, but I don’t. I just feel the same swell of power I did before as I guide his hand between my legs. “Like this.”

He seems to be beyond words now; he just pants like a predator in my ear as he cups me hard over my jeans. I squirm. He reaches for the button and zipper, then prompts me to lift my hips up as he slides the denim a few inches down my legs. My underwear is made of the same peach lace, and he strokes the dainty fabric a few inches above where I need him most.

He’s silent as he works his fingers lower, teasing and tempting like I’m an instrument he already knows how to play. I can feel the tension building inside me before he’s even moved beneath the lace. When he finally does, I gasp at the sensation, thrusting my hips up to meet his fingers as they trace the length of my folds.

“You’re so wet.” He says it reverently.

There’s no warning before his finger plunges inside me, just the shock of the pressure. He slides all the way in and crooks it at just the right angle to make me see stars.

“Oh my god. Oh my god.”

He pulls out just before he starts building a rhythm, spreading my wetness onto my clit so he can stroke it with his thumb as he presses two fingers inside me this time. I clench my teeth together and grab at fistfuls of the blanket while he continues. His strokes get faster and harder until the fuse inside me has almost burnt down to the end. I cup my breast with one hand and tease my own nipple, edging closer and closer to the finish line.

JP swears at the sight and twists so he can press his mouth to my shoulder. He bites down, and the shock of pain is enough to send me over the edge. I come, bucking against his hand and crying out as a rush of sound seems to swell in my head, blotting the whole world out. There’s nothing but oblivion, just a swirling blackness streaked with shooting stars.

I’m dimly aware of myself thrashing on the bed. When I finally open my eyes, the sight of JP stretched out beside me fills my whole vision. He’s staring at me like he’s watched some cataclysmic event, like a hurricane just ripped right through the centre of his world. His expression is so awed it verges on terrified, and I know mine must look the same.

The full impact of the moment just hit us both at the same time.

This is more than sex. This is more than friendship. This is a force of nature we’re trying to hold in our hands.

“I want everything with you.” His whispers my own words back to me, like they’re a spell he’s scared to utter out loud. “Everything.”