That’s what gives me the strength to step away. I gather the blanket closer around myself and force a smile. “I should go to bed. If I don’t walk away now, I’m going to do things I’m not ready for yet.”
His mouth curves into a smile that’s equal parts understanding and regret. “Goodnight, Harper.”
“Goodnight.” Every step is on shaking legs. I leave him on the balcony, my pulse racing, knowing that walking away like this is the only way to keep the promise we just made to each other.
Sleep does not come easily.
I lie in the guest bed staring at the ceiling, the city glow filtering faintly through the curtains, my body humming with the aftermath of everything that just happened. The kiss keeps replaying itself in my mind, not in flashes but in sensations—the way his hands were steady at my waist, the heat of his body, the restraint layered beneath the want. I turn onto my side, then onto my back again, the sheets twisting under my fingers.
This is exactly why I walked away.
Wanting Aiden has never been the problem. Wanting him has always been the easiest thing in the world. It’s what comes after that terrifies me. The decisions that follow. The compromises. The possibility of hurting Mason if I let myself believe too hard in something that might not hold.
Loving Aiden again might make me braver, but it also makes me vulnerable in ways I don’t get to indulge recklessly.
After a while, the clock on the nightstand clicks over to 1:47 a.m.
I sigh quietly and push myself up into a sitting position. Lying here pretending I’ll drift off if I just try harder is pointless. My mind is too loud, my body too awake. I wrap the blanket around my shoulders again and pad quietly out into the hallway, careful not to make noise.
The living room is dim, lit only by the city beyond the windows. The balcony door is still cracked open.
I pause for a second, my hand resting on the doorframe, debating with myself. This is a bad idea. This is howgoing slowturns intorationalizing. I know all of that, and I still step forward, drawn by something that feels less like impulse and more like gravity.
Aiden is out there again, leaning against the railing, the night air tugging at his shirt. He looks over his shoulder when he senses me, his expression softening in a way that makes my chest ache. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“I tried,” I say quietly. “I told myself to stay in bed. To be sensible.”
His mouth curves slightly, but there’s no humor in it. Only rogue lust. “Still feeling sensible?”
“Not even a little bit.” The honesty feels dangerous, but I’m too tired to pretend otherwise. Slowly, I walk to him and the words rasp out of me. “I can’t stay away from you.”
He hooks a hand around my hip and our bodies press together as he growls, “Then don’t.”
AIDEN
Every wall I’ve built for six years collapses at once.
I don’t have time to think about consequences or fear or the part of my brain that spent years convincing itself that restraint was the same thing as safety. All I know is that she’s standing in front of me under the stars, wrapped in a blanket, eyes glassy like she’s gone wet everywhere.
We come together hard enough that the railing rattles.
Her mouth finds mine, and I kiss her back with everything I’ve held in since that morning at the cabin. The taste of her silken tongue in my mouth makes six years of restraint disintegrate into urgency. My hands are everywhere I can touch her without letting go, as if I loosen my grip even for a second, she might disappear again.
But this is hunger sharpened by regret, and I will not let her regret another moment with me. Even still, I can hardly make the words come out. “Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop.”
Her voice is dark. “Don’t you dare.”
That’s all I need to hear. I feast on her mouth as we clumsy make it inside. The balcony door shuts behind us, the city falling away as if it never existed. I don’t remember crossing the living room or making it down the hall. I remember her hands fistingin my shirt, the way she gasps when I press my forehead to hers like I need to anchor myself to something solid before I lose my fucking mind.
We collide with the bedroom door. I fumble with the handle, frustrated and shaking, and she laughs breathlessly against my jaw like she’s just as undone as I am. The moment it’s closed behind us, everything becomes sensation instead of sequence.
Bit it isn’t only physical. It can’t be. Every touch carries a memory. Each kiss is an apology for time lost between us. The air in our lungs is loaded with things we never said. Between kisses, words spill out because holding them back has cost us too much already. “I’ve thought about you every day for six years.”
She doesn’t look surprised. She just cups my face like she’s always known. “So, have I. You ruined me for anyone else.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say as I kiss my way up her throat. I don’t remember laying her on the bed—I only remember a sense of rightness when the world went sideways. “I’m sorry for that morning. For all of it.”
She pulls me closer, forehead pressed to mine. “Show me you’re not running this time.”
