“And I respected that,” I continue. “Until you let me in.”
He looks back up, fury and something raw colliding. “You think this is me letting you in?”
“I think,” I say, stepping closer, “that you wouldn’t be standing here yelling if you didn’t want to be part of this.”
He shakes his head. “You’re wrong.”
“Then walk away,” I challenge. “Tear up the flyer. Tell Saxon no. Tell the town to find another cause.”
He doesn’t move.
“See?” I whisper. “You’re still here.”
The air between us feels charged, thick enough to choke on. His chest rises and falls fast, eyes locked on mine like he’s trying to decide whether to run or burn.
“I won’t be your inspiration,” he says hoarsely.
“I don’t want you as my inspiration,” I reply. “I want you as my partner.”
That does it.
He crosses the last inch between us in one stride and grabs my arms—not rough, but firm, like he needs the contact toanchor himself. His hands are warm, calloused, familiar already in a way that makes my knees weak.
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he says.
“Then show me,” I challenge softly.
For a heartbeat, I think he’s going to kiss me.
Instead, he pulls me into him.
It’s not tentative. It’s not polite. It’s full-body, chest-to-chest, my cheek pressed against his sternum, his arms wrapping around me like he’s been holding back from this for days. I gasp at the suddenness of it, then melt, fitting into him like my body has been waiting for permission.
There’s no mistaking it.
We align perfectly.
My forehead tucks under his chin. His hand spreads across my back, big and steady, rubbing slow circles like he’s soothing something that’s been screaming inside him. I breathe him in—woodsmoke, oil, clean soap—and my entire nervous system exhales.
“Damn it,” he murmurs into my hair.
I wrap my arms around his waist without thinking, fingers curling into his shirt. “You okay?”
He lets out a shaky breath. “No.”
“Good,” I say lightly. “Means you’re human.”
He huffs a laugh against my temple. “You’re infuriating.”
“So I’ve been told.”
He tightens his hold, just a fraction. “You really think this show is a good idea?”
“I think,” I say honestly, “that people want to give back. And kids want to paint. And pain doesn’t have to be ugly to be real.”
He’s quiet for a long moment.
“Promise me something,” he says finally.
