She doesn’t.
The lightning flashes once, and then we’re kissing—slow, unhurried, inevitable. The kind of kiss that erases names and seasons and every bad decision that came before it.
When she pulls back, breathless, she whispers, “I don’t want to complicate things for you.”
“You simplify it,” I say. “You. Me. That’s it.”
Her laugh is a broken sound. “You make it sound so easy.”
“It could be.”
She looks up at me, rain glinting on the glass behind her. “Then don’t make me regret it.”
I don’t answer her with words.
I answer her with my hands—gentle at first, like I’m asking permission even though we’re already past that point. My palms slide along her arms, memorizing the way she fits against me, the way her breath stutters when I pull her closer. There’s nothing rushed about it. No urgency except the kind that’s been building for far too long.
She presses her forehead to my chest, and for a second we just breathe together, the storm roaring outside, the lighthouse holding steady around us like it’s done for a hundred years. When I tilt her chin up again, her eyes are dark, searching. Trusting.
“Tell me to stop,” I murmur.
She shakes her head, fingers curling into the front of my shirt instead. “Don’t.”
That’s all it takes.
We move together, not toward anything specific, just toward each other—backing into the room, hands exploring, mouths finding familiar places that suddenly feel new again. Every touch feels deliberate, like we’re making a promise without saying it out loud. Her laugh dissolves into a soft sound against my neck, and I feel it everywhere, right down to my bones.
I guide her down, slow enough to let the moment stretch, to let it mean something. She watches me the whole time, like she’s afraid if she looks away, it’ll vanish. I don’t rush. I don’t need to. The anticipation is its own kind of heat.
When I finally lower myself beside her, she reaches for me immediately, anchoring me there. As if I might disappear if she doesn’t. I kiss her again—deeper this time, fuller—and everything else fades out. The storm. The future. The careful lines we’ve both been walking.
For a while, there’s only this. Warmth and closeness and the quiet certainty of being exactly where we’re supposed to be.
Later, the lighthouse smells like coffee and rain again. She’s lying beside me, tracing idle shapes on my chest. I’m pretending not to count how many heartbeats until I have to tell her.
“I got a call,” I finally say.
“From?”
“Nashville. Training camp wants me to check in next week.”
Her hand stills.
“I don’t even know if I’m ready,” I say. “But I have to find out.”
She nods, staring at the ceiling. “Of course.”
“I’ll come back.”
“I know.” Her voice is steady, but her eyes aren’t. “You always do.”
I reach for her hand, link our fingers. “I don’t want this to feel like goodbye.”
“Then don’t make it one.”
Dawn comes too soon. I pack my bag while she makes coffee, both of us pretending it’s just another morning. She stands on the porch in my sweatshirt, hair in a braid, trying to look unshakable.
“I’ll call,” I promise.
