I stare at her. “You noticed all that.”
“I noticedyou,” she says, like it should be obvious. “And you kept pushing me away. Every time I tried to get close, you shutdown. You’d say something sharp or disappear for days. And I—” Her throat works. “I didn’t know how to save you.”
I close my eyes for a second because hearing that is its own kind of wound.
“You weren’t supposed to save me,” I say hoarsely. “That was never your job.”
“But I loved you,” she says, fierce and quiet. “So it felt like my job.”
The words hit me straight in the chest.
I pull her closer until her forehead rests against mine.
“I pushed you away because I thought you deserved better,” I whisper. “You deserved more. You deserved a man who didn’t wake up sweating. Who didn’t look at the world like it was a threat waiting to happen.”
“And you decided that for me,” she whispers back, the old hurt slipping through.
“I did.” I don’t dodge it. “And then I overheard you—talking about leaving. About wanting more than this town.”
Her eyes flicker.
“I wanted to stop you,” I admit. “God, I wanted to. But I thought—if I begged you to stay, I’d be stealing your future. So I didn’t.” Regret burns in my throat. “And I’ve regretted it every day since.”
Delaney’s lips part like she’s about to say something, then she just exhales and shakes her head once. “That was never the choice,” she whispers. “I didn’t leave because I didn’t love you. I left because you made it impossible to stay.”
I swallow. “I know.”
Her gaze holds mine, steady and aching. “Do you still think I deserve better?”
“No,” I say immediately. “I think you deserve what you want.”
“And what if what I want is you?” she asks, voice shaking like she hates how true it is.
My chest goes tight in the best way. I cup her face in both hands, thumbs brushing under her eyes as if I can wipe away all the years we lost. “Then I’m yours,” I murmur. “If you’ll have me.”
Delaney’s breath trembles out of her. She leans in first this time, closing the space between us like she’s done running. Her mouth meets mine, soft at first—an exhale, a promise—then deeper, more certain. I kiss her back like I’ve been starved for this exact kind of yes. Her hand slides into my hair, gripping, tugging me closer. I shift over her, careful not to crush her, but I can’t keep the hunger out of it. Not after what we just said. Not after we just ripped open the past and still chose each other anyway.
“Nash,” she whispers against my lips.
“I’m here,” I breathe.
Her legs hook around my hips, pulling me in, and the heat of her through the thin fabric nearly knocks the restraint clean out of me. I groan low, then bury it in her mouth, kissing her slower—deeper—like I’m trying to memorize the way she tastes, the way she breathes, the way she makes my name sound like a prayer.
My hand slides down her side, over her waist, stopping at her thigh. I squeeze gently, feeling her shiver, feeling her press closer like she wants more.
I pull back just enough to look at her. Her eyes are dark and bright all at once, lips swollen, hair wild around her face.
“I love you,” I say, voice rough.
Her bright eyes shine up at me. “I’ve always loved you, Nash Hawthorne.”
That wrecks me.
I kiss her again—long and slow—then trail my mouth to her jaw, her throat, the spot below her ear that makes her gasp and clutch at me like she’s trying to hold on.
Her laughter breaks out breathless between kisses, half-disbelieving. “We are so bad at ‘not acting on our feelings.’”
I smile against her skin. “We tried.”
