“At letting myself have something,” I say, honest in a way that tastes like rust.
Her gaze softens. “Maybe you don’t have to be good. Maybe you just have to… try.”
My chest tightens so hard it hurts.
I lean in, slow. Close enough that her breath brushes my mouth. Close enough that I feel her tremble.
“Mila,” I murmur, like a warning.
She whispers, “Beau.”
That’s it.
That’s the line snapping.
I kiss her—gentle at first, just a press of my mouth to hers, like I’m testing whether it’s real.
It’s real.
She makes a soft sound, barely there, and her hand lifts to my chest like she’s checking I’m solid.
I deepen it, just a little. My thumb strokes along her jaw. Her lips part under mine, warm and yielding, and heat runs through me so fast it’s almost violent.
Years of nothing.
Years of distance.
And then her—sweet and steady and letting me.
I pull back a fraction, breathing hard. “Tell me to stop.”
Her eyes are dazed, cheeks flushed, lips swollen. “I don’t want you to.”
My control frays.
I kiss her again—slower, hungrier—then drag my mouth to the corner of hers, tasting cocoa and soup and something that feels like home.
Her fingers curl into my shirt, holding on.
I force myself to break away, forehead resting against hers as I fight my own body. “This is a bad idea.”
Mila’s laugh is shaky. “You’re the one who kissed me.”
“I know,” I grit out, because that’s the problem.
She leans in, brushing her mouth against mine again like she’s not afraid of my edges. “Then maybe don’t make it bad.”
My hands slide to her waist, gripping carefully—like I’m afraid I’ll bruise her with how much I want her. She’s soft under my palms, curves fitting perfectly like my hands were built for this.
A low sound rumbles in my throat, and Mila’s eyes widen like she feels it.
“Beau,” she whispers again, and it sounds like my name is something she could beg with.
I pull back—just enough to look her in the face.
Her pupils are blown. Her cheeks are pink. She looks at me like I’m not a threat—like I’m something she wants.
It breaks me a little.
