His eyes meet mine, and the intensity there makes me feel like I'm floating.
"I did."
The air between us shifts, charged with something electric. Something inevitable. I'm acutely aware of the empty bakery around us and the darkness pressing against the windows. More than anything, I'm aware of the way his attention feels hyper-focused on me. Like I couldn't pull away even if I wanted to.
I don't want to.
"I should let you get home," I say, but I don't move to stand.
"You should," he agrees, but he doesn't move either.
Instead, his gaze drops to my mouth, just for a second. Just long enough for heat to pool low in my belly and for every rational thought to scatter like flour dust.
The silence stretches between us, taut as a wire. Outside, Caraway Cove sleeps. Inside, something wakes.
"Or," I hear myself say, my voice barely above a whisper, "you could stay."
Nick goes very still. "Samantha…”
"I live upstairs." The words tumble out before I can stop them, reckless and honest and terrifying. "I have wine. Better coffee. A view of the harbor that's actually worth seeing in the moonlight."
His jaw tightens, and I watch him wage some internal war. When he speaks, his voice is strained. "I don't want you to think?—"
"I know exactly what I'm thinking." I stand, pulse hammering in my throat. "I haven't let anyone close in three years. Haven't wanted to. But you—" I break off, searching for words that won't sound desperate or damaged or like I'm moving too fast. "You make me want to be brave again."
Something fierce and hungry flashes across his face. He rises from his chair with deliberate slowness, and the air itself seems to thicken.
"If I come upstairs," he says, each word carefully measured, "I'm not sure I'll want to leave."
The promise in those words sends heat spiraling through me. I should be scared. Should protect the careful life I've built here, guard the heart I've worked so hard to heal.
Instead, I find myself stepping closer, close enough to catch the scent of him. It's like sawdust and winter air and something indefinably him. "Good."
His control visibly fractures. "Samantha," he breathes, and then his hand is cupping my jaw, thumb tracing my cheekbone with devastating gentleness. "Tell me to stop."
But I don't want him to stop. I want his hands on me, want to know if his mouth tastes as good as I've imagined for weeks now, want to feel something other than careful and cautious and safe.
I want to feel alive.
"Don't stop," I whisper.
The last thread snaps. His mouth crashes against mine, and the world tilts sideways. The kiss is everything. It's hungry and tender and claiming all at once. My hands find his shoulders, solid and real, and I press closer, desperate to eliminate every inch of space between us.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"Upstairs," I manage.
His eyes are molten, pupils blown wide. "Lead the way."
I take his hand, this man who fixed my oven and saw my scars and makes me believe I could be whole again, and guide him toward the back staircase that leads to my apartment. Each step feels weighted with promise, with the absolute certainty that everything is about to change.
At the landing, I pause, key in hand. One last chance to be sensible. To protect myself.
But then Nick's hand settles on my hip, and he leans in to murmur against my ear: "I've got you."
And I believe him.
I unlock the door.
