“I am.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m terrified I’m going to mess this up. And I want to remember what it felt like before I did.”
“Mess what up?”
“This.” I gesture between us. “Whatever this is. Whatever we’re doing at sunrise on a beach pretending we’re just a landlord and tenant having a casual conversation.”
“Is that what we’re pretending?”
“I don’t know what we’re pretending anymore.”
She laughs, quiet and a little breathless. “Me neither.”
The sky is blazing now, the sun fully risen and turning the clouds into streaks of coral and gold. The ocean catches the light and throws it back, a million tiny mirrors sparkling on the surface. It’s the kind of morning that makes you believe anything is possible.
“This is a terrible idea,” she says.
“The worst.”
“You’re my landlord.”
“I know.”
“You threatened to evict me.”
“I know.”
“I should hate you.”
“Do you?”
She’s quiet for a beat too long.
“No,” she admits. “That’s the problem. I really, really don’t.”
“Jessica—”
“I don’t understand you,” she says. “You’re cold, and then you’re kind. You read poetry and argue about spreadsheets and look at me like?—”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m something worth seeing.”
“You are.” The words come out rough. “You’re the most worth-seeing person I’ve ever met.”
One moment we’re talking ,and the next, her hands are in my hair and my arms are around her waist and we’re kissing like the sunrise demanded it.
It’s not gentle. It’s months of tension breaking open—all the arguments and almost-moments and loaded silences collapsing into something desperate and honest and inevitable.
She tastes like salt and hope and coming home.
When we finally pull apart, we’re both breathing hard. Her hands are still tangled in my hair. My forehead is pressed against hers. The waves keep crashing like nothing has changed, even though everything has.
“Wow,” she breathes.
“Yeah.”
