“Keep lying,” he teased, though his voice sounded rough. “I like it.”
I tilted his chin until he met my eyes. “Anyone who makes you feel small for wanting to be loved, to be chosen—they’re the broken ones. Not you.”
Adrian’s voice was hoarse when it came. “Stop saying nice shit, or I won’t leave before morning.”
I grinned. “Not letting you leave before morning. Did I mention I also get a wholesale discount on chains?”
The air between us shifted, the gentle intimacy of the conversation bleeding into something more charged. Adrian’s gaze dropped to my mouth, and I felt that familiar pull, the gravity that seemed to exist between us.
“Adrian,” I said, my voice rougher than I intended.
“Yeah?”
Instead of answering with words, I closed the distance between us, capturing his mouth with mine. This kiss was different from the desperate hunger we’d shared before—slower, more deliberate. Like we had all the time in the world to explore each other, to learn the taste and texture of want without the fear of interruption.
Adrian’s hands fisted in my flannel, pulling me closer as he deepened the kiss. I could taste the lingering sweetness of marshmallow on his tongue, could feel the wine-warm heat of his mouth against mine. When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, his eyes were dark with desire.
“Bedroom?” I asked, the word coming out somewhere between a question and a plea.
“God, yes.”
My bedroom was as simple as the rest of the apartment—a queen bed with a quilt Maya had given me for Christmas the year before, a dresser that had belonged to my grandfather, windows that looked out over Founder’s Row and the square. Nothing fancy, nothing designed to impress. Just the space where I slept and read and tried not to think too hard about the future.
But with Adrian in it, the room felt transformed. He moved to the window first, looking out at the snow-covered street below.
“I can see the gallery from here,” he said softly. “And the café. It’s like having the whole town as your backyard.”
“Sometimes it feels more like a fishbowl,” I admitted, moving to stand behind him. “Everyone knows everyone’s business. Everyone has opinions about how you should live your life.”
“Is that why you’ve been so resistant? To this?” He leaned back against my chest, and I wrapped my arms around him instinctively.
“Partly.” I pressed my face into his hair, breathing in the scent of him—expensive shampoo and woodsmoke and something that was purely Adrian. “Small towns have long memories. If I let myself care about you and you leave…”
“Everyone will know,” he finished quietly.
“Everyone will know I was stupid enough to fall for someone whose whole life is about leaving.”
Adrian turned in my arms, his expression serious. “What if I told you I’m not sure I want to leave?”
My heart stuttered, hope and terror warring in my chest. I swallowed hard. “What if… what if I told you that scares me more than you leaving?”
“Why?”
“Because wanting you to stay feels selfish as hell. You’ve got this whole life, this career, this world that’s bigger than Legacy could ever be. What right do I have to ask you to give that up?”
Adrian’s hands came up to frame my face, his thumbs stroking across my cheekbones. “What if you weren’t asking? What if I wanted to give it up? What if I wanted something solid and real instead of shallow and empty?”
Before I could answer—before I could find words for the storm of emotions his question unleashed—he kissed me again. This time, there was desperation in it, a need that went beyond physicaldesire. It was the kiss of someone trying to say with his body what his words couldn’t quite capture.
I kissed him back with everything I had, pouring years of loneliness and want and careful distance into the connection between us. My hands found the hem of his sweater, tugging it up and over his head. He was beautiful in the lamplight, all lean muscle and smooth skin, and I took a moment just to look at him.
“You’re staring,” he said, but there was no self-consciousness in it. Just warm amusement.
“Can you blame me?”
Adrian responded by reaching for my flannel, working the buttons open with steady fingers. When his hands spread across my chest, I had to close my eyes against the intensity of it—not just the physical sensation, but the emotional weight of being seen, being touched, being wanted.
“Maddox,” he whispered, my name carrying words unspoken.
