I didn’t even bother with the truck. Just took off on foot, dodging pedestrians and slick patches of cobblestone, barely registering the sound of horns or the taste of rain slicking down my face. I couldn’t risk the delay of getting it out of the garage or wading through Hoyt’s weather commentary and useless small talk. My only goal was distance—closing the one-mile gap between my studio and Whitefield Square.
I ran harder than I had in years.
Each step pressed the weight deeper into my chest—fear, guilt, frustration. But underneath it, a seed of hopefulness had begun to bloom. A slow, reluctant, dangerous vine.
I told myself it was about keeping her safe. That she ran because of me—because I said too much, or not enough. Because I was the one who always had to make it right, who fixed broken things even if I wasn’t the one who broke them and especially if it was me wielding the hammer. It’s what I do. But the more I moved—heart pounding, lungs burning—the more the excuses began to unravel.
This wasn’t about duty. This wasn’t about Doyle or my sister or all the eyes that were on me watching me unravel at the seams. This wasn’t even about the damn poodle.
I wanted her near me. I wantedher.
And the realization hit with such force that it nearly stopped me in my tracks. But the square was ahead, the white gazebo rising out of the darkness like a castle in a fever dream, glowing under the dull yellow wash of a lamplight. I slowed my pace—not because I wasn’t desperate to see her, but because I didn’t want to barrel in like a man unhinged. I didn’t want her to see how out of breath I was, how hard I’d run just to get to her.
Just to be near her.
But then—screw it. I picked up speed again.
Nancy Reagan saw me first, all scraggly fur and righteous indignation, hopping around in demented circles, half barking, half growling, her own personal brand of greeting. She lunged, then froze, as if trying to decide whether to bite me or throw me a parade.
Tally stood suddenly, eyes scanning the square. Her hair was damp and curling around her face, and her clothes clung in all the places that made it difficult for me to form a single coherent thought.
And I probably looked like I’d come out of the sea—soaked to the skin, hair dripping, chest heaving from the run. She took a step toward me and froze.
“Charlie—”
But I didn’t let her say anything else.
I climbed the steps of the gazebo and stopped in front of her, the rain pounding against the roof overhead, the air thick with tension and the scent of warm pavement and wild winter storm.
I was angry. But not at her. I was angry with myself. Frustrated, and fractured at how deeply I’d gotten tangled up in this without even realizing it. At how deeply I’d gotten tangled up in thiswoman. At how scared I was to admit what I was feeling for her.
She looked up at me then, lip trembling slightly, a little breathless, hair sticking to her temple, and I couldn’t take it anymore.
I didn’t ask. I didn’t speak. I reached for her, inch by inch, leaving space for her to pull away.
She didn’t.
My hand found the slope of her jaw, fingers trembling enough to betray me. She didn’t pull away. If anything, she leaned in. The pad of my thumb traced her cheekbone, slow and reverent, and for one suspended breath, she let her eyes fall closed. Like we’d finally caught up to the moment that had been waiting for us all along.
I took it all in. Every rain-slicked eyelash, every freckle softened by the wet streetlamp glow, every rise and fall of her breath as she stood perfectly still, letting me hold her in the quiet. Her eyes fluttered open again—wide, uncertain, bright-hazel eyes full of questions neither of us dared to ask.
And then I dipped my head. Not to kiss her. Not yet. But close enough that our foreheads touched, damp skin pressed together, both of us breathing in the same tight pocket of air. Her breathcaught. Mine was already lost. My other hand slid to her waist, steadying us both, and still, we didn’t speak.
She was shaking slightly. Or maybe I was.
She tilted her chin up a fraction, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it. But I was looking—God, I’d been looking—and that was all it took.
I closed the distance.
The kiss started gently, hesitant at first, like a thread pulling tight between us. But then she sighed—soft and broken—and the sound unraveled every bit of restraint I had left.
I pulled back just far enough to study her face, chest heaving, searching for the faintest sign that she didn’t want this—that she didn’t wantme. That she didn’t need me the way I needed her, in the way a soul needs a body, an artist needs a muse. But all I found was light. Mischief. Thatdon’t you dare stopgleam that knocked the breath clean out of me. And that was all it took.
My mouth found hers again, harder this time, the kind of kiss that left no air between us. My fingers slipped into her damp hair, the heat of her skin searing through me. She gripped my shirt like she needed to anchor herself, and I let go of every wall, every warning, every bit of control I’d been clinging to.
It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t careful.
It was heat and rain and the wild, aching truth of two people who’d been circling the same fire for far too long.
