“I was seventeen,” I say quietly.“And I swore, swore, that if I ever had the chance to be in the way, I would be.That nobody was touching someone I cared about without going through me first.”
Her fingers tighten now.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers.“You shouldn’t have had to carry that.”
I shrug one shoulder, even though it feels like that shrug has knives in it.“We don’t get to choose which fires we walk through.”
Our hands remain joined on her thigh.Skin on skin.Warm and alive.Too much but also not enough.She stares down at them like she can’t decide if she wants to pull away or hold on tighter.
“Darren?”she says softly.
“Yeah?”
“Why me?”
My brows pull together.“What do you mean?”
She laughs a little, incredulous.“I’m thirty-five.Divorced.Full of trauma and bad coping mechanisms.I snore when I’m exhausted and I hoard books like a damn dragon.My body looks nothing like the women a man your age usually chase.And you’re...”
She gestures at me helplessly.Like I’m something impressive.Like she can’t see the cracks under the surface.
“I’m what?”I ask gently.
“Young,” she whispers.“Beautiful.Strong.Capable.You could have someone easy.”
There it is.The rot.The thing he planted.
I shift, turning enough so she has my full attention, our knees brushing, the air between us charged and thick with what could be.
“First of all,” I say, voice rough, “don’t ever insult yourself like that in front of me.I won’t take it.Second, easy is boring.I don’t want easy.I want real.”
Her eyes shine, confusion and hope battling.
“Third,” I continue, leaning in just enough that she has to feel every word, “you’re gorgeous.And I don’t mean ‘for your age’ or ‘for your size’ or any of that backhanded bullshit.I mean you are the kind of woman men write bad poetry about and lie awake thinking of.You walk into a room, and my brain shuts down like Windows ‘95.”
A laugh bursts out of her, wet and startled.“That’s ...specific.”
“It’s also true.”
Silence hums.Electric.And she licks her lips.
Bad idea, sweetheart.
“You’re still too young,” she whispers, but it sounds weak now, like even she doesn’t believe it anymore.
“I’m old enough to know what I want,” I say simply.“And to know the difference between infatuation and ...this.”
Her gaze snaps to mine.“This?”
“Yeah,” I murmur.“This.”
The space between us evaporates.I don’t lunge.I don’t trap.I just ...lean in, slow and inevitable, giving her every second in the world to pull back.But she doesn’t.
Her breath shudders out, lips parting.I hover a heartbeat away from her mouth, my entire body strung tight, every cell screamingkiss herwhile the last rational part of me whispersslow.
“Tell me to stop,” I rasp an inch away from her lips.
She closes the last inch and our mouths brush.It’s not even a real kiss, just contact.Soft but devastating.Her hand tightens in mine at the same time her other lifts, fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt like she needs to hold on to something to keep from floating away.
