I follow, chest tight, hands itching to reach for her. Halfway to my truck, she spins on me, hair catching the light, arms flaring, eyes blazing. “You don’t own me. You don’t get to choose who I talk to or dance with.”
I lift my hands, rubbing the tension from the back of my neck. It’s now or never. “I know.” I swallow hard. “I just hate watching someone else want what I can’t have.”
She freezes mid-step, fingers twitching, lips parting, brows knitting, the moonlight catching the curve of her cheek. The air between us thickens, heavy, electric. My own fists clench at my sides, and every nerve in me is awake, wanting, aching.
“What are you saying?” she whispers.
I step closer, letting the tension hang in the moonlit lot, every muscle coiled, every heartbeat loud. “You act like I’m not allowed to want you. Well, I’m sick of it. Because I do want you.”
She stares at me, eyes full of shock. “I didn’t know. You never said anything…”
I open the truck and she reluctantly climbs in, still looking at me like she doesn’t know what to say.
“You never had to,” I reply. “You keep me at arm’s length, so I never try. It’s like you’re terrified I’ll leave if you let me close.”
I climb into the driver’s seat and we head to her house in silence, but it’s not awkward. It’s like she’s thinking about what I said.
She looks away but doesn’t deny it. We pull into her driveway, and I follow her up to the house.
We reach her porch and she fumbles with her keys. I gently wrap my hand around her wrist before she can unlock the door. “Look at me.”
She looks up at me slowly and cautiously. Like, I might ruin her whole life with one word.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I tell her. “Not ever.”
A tiny, shaky breath escapes her. “Don’t say things like that.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“Because I’ll believe you,” she whispers.
My heart physically hurts. I step in, close enough that I feel the heat radiating off her. “I meant it. I want you.”
She stares at my mouth, which I consider a good sign.
I tilt her chin up with my fingers, my thumb brushing her jaw. Her lips part on instinct. I bend, noses touching, her breath mixing with mine, every cell in me screaming to close the distance.
We’re right there. One inch from everything. Then the front door flies open.
“Are you guys fighting or kissing?” Owen asks, hair sticking up, blanket wrapped around him, a box of cereal tucked under his arm.
Poppy leaps a whole foot away from me like I’m on fire. “Fighting!”
“Kissing,” I echo way too fast.
“You’re both weird.” Ollie squints at us and looks at our empty hands. “I thought you were bringing home chicken strips.”
Poppy groans. “Go inside, bud.”
He shrugs and disappears like a tiny chaos goblin.
We stand there, staring at each other with freshly scorched souls.
“You almost kissed me,” she says.
“You almost kissed me back.”
She sucks in a breath. “This is a terrible idea.”
