“Powell.” Her voice trembled in a way that shot straight to the center of me. “That kiss…”
Every molecule in my body seemed to align toward her. “Yeah?” I barely managed the word.
“It wasn’t a mistake,” she whispered.
The relief that flooded me was so fierce it nearly buckled my knees. I let the words settle like they were stitched straight into my skin.
It wasn’t a mistake.
Christ.
“Jess…” Her name came out low, like my voice had dropped into some deeper register that only existed for her.
She looked up at me, and something in her expression flickered open. Scared, yeah. But hopeful too.
I closed the distance slowly, giving her every opportunity to change her mind. Her breath brushed my chin. Her lashes trembled. She didn’t back away, and that was the biggest victory.
I lifted a hand, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. My fingertips skimmed the warm edge of her jaw, and she released a quiet, shaky breath, like she was done fighting. Like maybe she hadn’t ever wanted to fight in the first place.
That tiny sound undid every last bit of restraint I had left.
I angled closer, and she rose the slightest bit onto her toes—a small, unconscious lean that said more than any speech she could’ve given.
I needed no further invitation.
The first press of her mouth to mine was soft, a testing, tender touch that made my lungs stall out completely. She kissed me like someone rediscovering something she wasn’t sure she was allowed to want. But when I slid my other hand to the small of her back, guiding her a breath closer, she let out a quiet noise against my mouth—half gasp, half surrender—and the kiss deepened without either of us deciding to make it happen.
Her fingers curled into my shirt, pulling me closer. She tipped her head enough to change the angle, and suddenly her lips opened under mine, warm and sweet and yielding in a way that sent heat surging straight through me.
I hadn’t touched her for years—not really—and somehow my body remembered every version of wanting her. The way she leaned into me. The way she tasted faintly of the coffee she always clung to. The soft catch of her breath when I let my thumb sweep beneath her cheekbone.
I kissed her deeper—slow, hungry in a way I couldn’t hide anymore—and she answered with a soft, helpless sound that landed like a spark in the center of my chest.
When we finally broke for air, she didn’t move far. She stayed close, forehead brushing mine, breath mingling with mine, fingers still caught in the fabric of my shirt like she didn’t trust her knees yet.
Her voice came out barely a whisper. “So… what now?”
I cupped her cheek lightly, letting my thumb trace the warm line of her skin. “Now we finish this festival. Now we fix your truck. Now we stop letting things we never talked about decide our lives.”
A breathless little laugh escaped her. “That sounds dangerously mature.”
My lips quirked. “I have my moments.”
Her eyes softened in a way I’d never seen, even in high school. “Yeah, I’m starting to see that.”
And standing there in the middle of an empty, fluorescent-lit room, with December breathing cold against the windows and her warmth pressed close to me, I realized something simple and astonishingly clear:
This wasn’t the end of anything.
It was the beginning.
SIXTEEN
JESS
By the time the drill battery died for the second time, I’d accepted that having Powell as my… whatever he was now… was hazardous to my ability to focus on literally anything else.
I pulled the trigger and got a sad little whine instead of torque. “I swear this thing hates me.”
