I should stop this.
I should think of Daisy and boundaries and the fact that I have survived by not wanting things I can’t control.
But his hand is warm against my skin, and the truth is, I have wanted him for ten years. I have just trained myself not to look at the wanting too closely.
His thumb strokes my cheek once, light. “Tell me to stop,” he says quietly.
My breath catches. I don’t tell him to stop.
His mouth meets mine.
Not rushed. Not desperate. Slow enough that my body has time to recognize it. To remember.
His lips move against mine with a careful patience that feels unbearable, like he’s tasting something he thought he’d never get back.
My hands lift without permission, gripping the front of his shirt to steady myself, because the kiss is pulling something open inside me that I have kept shut for a long time.
His breath is warm. He smells like soap and cold air and something faintly smoky from the call, but the real heat is him, solid and present, here.
I make a small sound I don’t recognize, and his hand slides from my cheek to the back of my neck, fingers threading gently into my hair. He deepens the kiss slowly, giving me the choice in every inch of it.
When I part my lips, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a decade.
The kiss turns hungry, not frantic but intense, like the restraint has snapped. His mouth moves with purpose now, his hand firm at my neck, anchoring me. My knees go weak, and I grip him harder, needing the contact, needing proof this is real.
For a moment, I am not a single mother or a woman who learned how to survive loss.
I am just a woman kissing the boy she once loved. Except he isn’t a kid anymore, and neither am I.
His other hand braces on the counter beside me, boxing me in without trapping me. He kisses me like he’s trying to memorize the shape of my mouth again, like he’s afraid it will vanish if he doesn’t.
My pulse pounds everywhere. My lips are swollen. My skin feels too tight.
And then a soft sound echoes down the hallway.
Daisy’s footsteps.
Reality snaps back. I jerk away, breathless, my hand flying to my mouth as if I can cover what just happened.
Brendon stills instantly, stepping back, his chest rising and falling hard. His eyes are dark, his jaw clenched, but he doesn’t look angry. He looks wrecked.
Daisy appears in the doorway, toothbrush in hand, hair messy. She squints at us suspiciously. “Why do you look weird?”
“We don’t,” I say too quickly.
Brendon clears his throat. “We were… talking.”
Daisy narrows her eyes. “Talking makes you out of breath?”
“Sometimes,” Brendon says, and there’s a flicker of humor in his voice that makes my stomach flip again.
She looks up at him. “Can you come to my school and talk about fire safety?”
Brendon blinks. “Me?”
“Yes,” Daisy says, like it’s obvious. “Because you’re my hero.”
I glance at Brendon, panic blooming, because the request is sweet and innocent and also a door swinging open wider than I’m ready for.
