My heart isn’t beating anymore. It’s soaring. Burning. Lighting up every dark corner inside me.
“And right now,” he finishes, voice barely above the wind, “I don’t want to stop.”
I inhale sharply, the cold air cutting through the heat rising everywhere else.
“Calder,” I whisper, stepping closer, “you don’t scare me.”
He closes his eyes like the words physically hit him.
When he opens them again, something unguarded glows there—soft, deep, certain.
“Come here,” he murmurs.
He doesn’t grab me.
Doesn’t pull.
Just opens the space between us.
I step into it.
His hands slide to my waist, warm even through my sweater, grounding me, anchoring me, undoing me. My hands find hischest—solid and steady beneath flannel—and then his forehead rests gently against mine.
The world goes quiet.
The snow drifts.
The porch light flickers.
And he kisses me.
Slow at first—just the soft press of lips meeting lips in the kind of way you can’t breathe through.
Then deeper, warmer, unmistakably hungry.
His hands tighten at my waist.
Mine slide up to his shoulders.
He exhales into my mouth like he’s been holding that breath for days.
“Natalie,” he murmurs against my lips, “God?—”
I thread my fingers into his hair, and he groans, low and quiet, pulling me closer.
The kiss changes—heat blooming where warmth was. His body pressing mine gently against the porch wall. My hands tugging him down to meet me. A slow, sweet ache curling deep in my stomach.
He kisses like he feels everything. Like he’s been starving and I’m the first real thing he’s tasted in years. Like he doesn’t want this moment to end.
Then he pulls back just far enough to look at me, breathing harder, eyes dark and warm.
“We should go inside,” he says, voice rough.
Not hesitant. Not unsure.
Just full of wanting—and offering.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Take me inside.”
