[ It's not that he's expecting her to back out — no, he knows her better than that — but really, he hasn't fully grasped the reality of the situation by the time it's happening.

The reality of the situation is that he, Dave Fucking Strider, His Imperial Ironic Fucking Majesty, is being kissed by a very pretty girl. That's half the reality, anyway, and that's the half that hit him first. His heart does a little thing, like some Olympic-level gymnast butterflies are practicing on the pommel horse inside his chest.

And then one of those butterflies sprains its wrist or some shit, because his heart crashes against his ribcage the next second and the rest of it catches up with him.

Jesus jumpfucking Christ, Strider, she's your sister.

And she's not kissing him anymore, so he breathes (slowly, subtly, do not look at me Lalonde I've been breathing this whole time) and glances down at her. She's still way too close, but it's far beneath his considerable pride to admit he's at all uncomfortable. ]

It's cute how you say 'ready,' like that was some worldshaking millennial fucking syzygy of a kiss I should've prepared myself for. I've totally had better.

[ That, or this was his first kiss. Your call, Lalonde. ]