“You’re not.” His voice is rough. “You’re not too much. You’re—“ He stops, struggling for words. “I’d rather be scared with you than go back to being alone. I know that’s not fair to say. I know we barely know each other. But it’s true.”
There it is again. That terrifying honesty. That raw, unguarded thing he keeps offering me.
Part of me wants to match it. Wants to sayme tooandI’m falling for youand all the reckless, hopeful things that are building in my chest.
But I’ve been reckless before. I’ve fallen before. And I know how that story ends.
“I can’t give you that yet,” I tell him quietly. “I want to. But I can’t just... leap. Not again.”
He nods slowly, and I brace for him to pull away. To decide I’m not worth the effort if I can’t meet him where he is.
Instead, he reaches up and touches my face. Gentle. Patient. Like he has all the time in the world.
“Then don’t leap,” he says. “Just stay. Tonight. We’ll figure out the rest tomorrow.”
It’s not a declaration. It’s not a demand. It’s just an invitation.
And despite every warning bell in my head, I find myself nodding.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Tonight.”
Something shifts in his eyes—relief, maybe, or hope. Then he’s kissing me, and I stop thinking about tomorrow.
It’s nothing like before—tentative and questioning. This is decisive. This is a man who’s made a choice and is following through. His hands frame my face, tilting my head back, and his mouth moves over mine with a hunger that sends heat flooding through my entire body.
I grab fistfuls of his flannel and pull him closer. He groans against my lips—a low, desperate sound that vibrates through me—and suddenly we’re moving, stumbling toward the stairs, toward the loft bedroom I’ve been sleeping in alone.
We don’t make it far.
He presses me against the wall at the base of the stairs, his body a solid wall of heat against mine. His thigh slides between my legs, and I gasp at the pressure, the friction, the sheer overwhelmingpresenceof him.
“Tell me to stop,” he rasps against my throat. “If you want me to stop, tell me now.”
“Don’t you dare.”
Something breaks loose in him at that. His hands slide under my sweater, rough palms against soft skin, and I’m arching into his touch like I’ve been starving for it. Maybe I have. Maybe we both have.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his gray eyes dark with want. “Upstairs.”
One word. A command.
I take his hand and lead him up.
The loft bedroom is cold,the fire’s warmth not quite reaching this high. I barely notice. Finn’s hands are on me, pulling my sweater over my head, and the way he looks at me in the dim light makes every insecurity I’ve ever had evaporate like morning frost.
“God,” he breathes. “Look at you.”
I’m standing in my bra and jeans, my arms fighting the urge to cross over my stomach, my soft belly, all the places Stephen used to criticize. But Finn’s gaze moves over me like I’m something precious. Something beautiful.
“You’re perfect,” he says, and his voice cracks on the word.
“I’m not?—”
“You are.” He steps closer, runs his hands down my sides, over the curve of my hips. “Every inch. Perfect.”
He says it like he means it. Like he needs me to believe it.
I reach for his shirt, fumbling with buttons until he takes over, shrugging it off to reveal the body I’ve been imagining since he first walked through that door. Broad chest, defined muscles, and the scars—God, the scars. They map his left side like a constellation, trailing from his ribs down past the waistband of his jeans.
