“Talk,” I say weakly.
“Talk,” Darren echoes, but his voice has gone lower, darker, rougher than any version of “talk” I’ve ever heard.
We end up in his room this time.It smells like him, clean laundry, cedar soap, and faint smoke that never quite leaves firefighters no matter how often they shower.The door shuts with a soft click that sounds nothing like entrapment and everything like privacy.
I stand there, heart doing its own drum solo, hands shaking slightly from adrenaline that hasn’t figured out where to land.
He leans against the dresser like he’s deliberately giving me space, like he’s fighting himself and winning by inches.
“You were incredible,” he says quietly.
I snort, because the alternative is to cry.“I was shaking so badly I could’ve blended margaritas.”
“You still said no,” he replies.“Not in your head.Out loud.To him.And that matters.”
The words sink somewhere deep and aching.I look at him, really look at him.
Twenty-three.
Too young, my brain whispers automatically.Old enough to carry me out of a burning house, another part of me answers.Old enough to stand between me and my nightmares without making it about himself.Old enough to look at every scar, inside and out, and not flinch.
He’s watching me with that steady patience he wears like turnout gear.
“What?”he asks softly.
“You,” I say before I can stop myself.
His lips twitch.“Me?”
“You’re ...dangerous,” I murmur, stepping closer without realizing I’ve moved.“You make me want things I talked myself out of years ago.”
His throat works.“Like what?”
“Like being wanted,” I whisper.“Not tolerated.Not endured.Wanted.All of me.Even the parts that take up space.”
His eyes flare, dark heat flooding them.“Come here.”
I’m already moving and he meets me halfway.
Our mouths crash together and the world narrows to points of contact, his hands framing my face, his thumbs brushing my jaw like he’s memorizing the shape of me, my fingers bunching in his hoodie, dragging him closer because closer suddenly feels like oxygen.
This kiss is not careful.This kiss is a decision.
Heat flares through me so fast it’s almost dizzying.It’s not the reckless rush of trauma bonding or panic relief.It’s deeper, slower underneath the urgency, two people who have walked through fire separately realizing they’re allowed to burn together without being destroyed.
He breaks away first.Barely.His forehead rests against mine, breaths harsh, self-control hanging by a thread.
“Say stop,” he rasps.“If you want me to stop, say it, and I swear...”
“I won’t,” I breathe.
His eyes slam shut.“Olivia...”
“I’ve had years of stop,” I say, surprising myself with the steadiness in my voice.“Years of don’t, of later, of only when it’s convenient for someone else.I want this.I want you.Not because I’m afraid.Not because tonight was hard.Because you make me feel like I can be me again.”
He swears under his breath, something low and reverent, like prayer turned dirty.
His hands slide down my sides, over the curve of my hips, like he’s asking questions with his palms.“Tell me if anything feels wrong.Anything.We go at your pace.We stop when you say.”
