And yet it feels like I’ve known you longer than some people I’ve loved for years.
Nash flips on his blinker. His jaw tightens. “Probably for the best,” he mutters.
My stomach dips.
And there it is.
Whatever he’s processing, it’s definitely me.
Why does he do this? Why can’t we just let this be what it is? Something unexpected. Something good.
“You’re doing it again” I say, calmly, though my pulse is sprinting ahead of me. “Giving answers that don’t really answer anything.”
He pulls into his driveway and finally turns his gaze to mine. A cloud moves across the setting sun, dimming the rose gold sky, but not the storm building behind his eyes.
“Twenty-two-year-old me knowing twelve-year-old you might make thirty-six-year-old me feel even worse about the things I want to do to twenty-six-year-old you.”
I blink. Then frown. “That’s a lot to unpack.”
But I do it. I untangle the math, the context, the subtext. And when I find the thread beneath it—desire strung tight with guilt—I turn toward him, unbuckling my seatbelt and tucking one knee up onto the seat.
“I don’t want you to feel bad because of me.”
“I only feel bad when I think about losing you,” Nash replies, voice rough, brows furrowing. His eyes—oh, those eyes—land on me and I swear they pull the air from my lungs.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
He looks away. “Me too.”
“Nash—”
He lifts his hands, surrendering to the ache between us. “I’ve spent years pretending I’m better off alone. Then you showed up and reminded me what it feels like to want someone so bad it hurts.”
My heart stumbles. That’s what I’ve been feeling too, even if I haven’t admitted it.
I reach for his hand. When our fingers touch, he inhales sharply like the contact physically knocks the breath out of him.
“I don’t know how to be around you, Nash. I feel better around you than I have with anyone ever, and I don’t know how to ignore something that big, but also… what happens when I leave?”
He doesn’t move away. Just stares like he’s memorizing me. His hands flex on the steering wheel, and then, finally, he nods. Once. Sharply. Like a decision’s been made. “That’s the question I keep asking myself. A question I don’t know how to answer. A question I think I might be tired of worrying about.”
He squeezes my hand and opens his door. I climb out of the truck as well, the wind catching the hem of my dress. We walk side by side, silent, the air thick withpossibility. The sound of the waves meeting the shore rises around us, echoing the rush in my veins. By the time we reach the porch, I’m dizzy—with hope, with nerves, with the electricity radiating between us.
Nash pushes open the door to his house and I step over the threshold, his hand firm on my lower back.
The door clicks shut behind us.
I lean against it, heart racing. My bravery evaporates the second his back is turned. He takes a few steps forward but then stops and glances back. When our eyes meet, something in his expression softens.
“You are so beautiful,” he says, voice quiet but sure. “It’s unfair.”
The words hit low and deep, like they were never meant to stay on the surface. I can’t move. Can’t breathe. Not until he does. He crosses the room in three long strides and cups the back of my neck with one strong, steady hand. The other finds my waist, warm and grounding. His lips taste mine like he’s been waiting for this moment for years. Like every second of distance was a mistake he’s finally correcting.
His kiss is fire.
Slow burn and sudden hunger.
I gasp softly, tipping my head to meet him, hands sliding from his arms around to his back, drawing him in until there’s no space left between us.
