No types, just this

 Isabella was certain about two things: one, that he absolutely wasn’t the type she’d go for, and two, that she couldn’t remember the last time someone’s eyes had made her stomach flip the way his did. There was also something about the way he spoke—transparent, calm, trustworthy—like he could read her mind but chose not to.

Every word they exchanged that night was a little drug. She wanted more. It felt easy; her mind found words like she had known the answers to these questions her entire life. One hour passed, then another; time became slippery, oily, stretching and folding in on itself. By the time they wandered into the night, she felt drunk without being drunk. A buzzing, a humming, a throbbing.

She stopped. Looked at him.

She reached out like she wasn’t even thinking, fingertips trailing his skin, down his jaw, tracing every bit like she could carve him into memory—slowly, softly but surely. He smelled like he came from the ocean or a dream, like he had nowhere to be except here, and God help her, she wanted to drown in it. When she got to his lips, she trembled. She was burning, burning.

"You’re not my type," she exhaled.

He grinned, slow, playful, knowing. "Then stop having a type."

And she did.

She kissed him, slow at first, then deeper, drinking him in like chardonnay, like something she hadn’t known she was starving for. He kissed her back like he meant it, like he’d been waiting—unhurried, completely in the moment—his hands finding her waist, pulling her in like he was gravity itself. The city roared around them, people speaking in all sorts of accents, ocean waves crashing, cars growling in the distance, but she only felt this—the way his lips moved against hers, the way he tasted like mint, like something faintly sweet, like honey, like trouble.

When they finally pulled apart, Isabella felt something had shifted beneath her. She didn't have the same certainties as before. The only thing she new, with absolute and undeniable clarity, was that she wanted more.