In books and movies, the stories always end when the two people finally have their romantic kiss. The happily-ever-after part is just assumed

There was no point getting all worked up about a kiss. One kiss does not a relationship make. I'd kissed boys before, and usually by the next day the kiss had evaporated like a dewdrop in the sun.

Pero yo sabía que con Adam sí había motivos para armar revuelo. Lo sabía por el calor que recorrió mi cuerpo aquella noche, cuando me dejó en casa después del concierto y me besó una vez más en la puerta. Lo sabía porque me quedé despierta hasta el amanecer abrazada a la almohada. Porque no puede comer al día siguiente, ni borrarme la sonrisa de la cara.

Adam's lips are set in a grime line. I can't tell if he's about to cry or about to punch the guard. For his sake, I hope it's the former. For you own, I hope the latter.

We stand there for a moment, staring at each other, savoring it. And then all at once, we slam together. Mia's legs are off the ground, wrapped around my waist, her hands dipping in my hair, my hands tangled in hers. And our lips. There isn't enough skin, enough spit, enough time, for the lost years that our lips are trying to make up for as they find each other. We kiss. The electric current switches to high. The lights throughout all of Brooklyn must be surging.

I know that all the magic kisses in the world probably couldn't have helped him today. But I would do anything to have been able to give him one.