“It felt like someone opened a window in my chest.” I try not to elaborate, because I’m not sure what to say, and I don’t want this newfound feeling of desire to end with a long talk over chamomile tea, grief, and poetry. “And everything flew out.”
He nods, like he knows exactly what I mean. “It was beautiful. Hard. Honest.” His jaw tenses. “He was my best friend.” His voice is soft, like the words are slipping out without permission.
“Me too.”
I squirm a little in the silence, under the weight of his stare.
Then, finally, he says it.
“I’ve wanted this for longer than I should,” he murmurs, his voice thick with conflict. “But I never wanted to be the reason you moved on. Or the thing you regretted.”
My heart stumbles over itself. “I don’t know what I’m ready for,” I whisper. “But I want this. I want tonight.”
“Are you sure?” His eyes bore into me, intense and searching.
“Yes.”
That’s all it takes.
He’s kissing me again, like he means it now. Like he’s been starving for this.
His hands slide down my back, anchoring me to him. My fingers dig into his hair, pulling him closer, needing something I can’t name. We fumble toward the couch, bumping into furniture, laughing breathlessly between kisses that grow deeper, more desperate.
He leans over me, weight balanced on his forearms, and brushes my hair back from my face with a gentleness that steals my breath.
Then he says it, barely audible, his lips ghosting my cheek:
“I can’t believe this is actually happening. After all this time.”
I freeze. Just for a second.
“What did you?—?”
But I don’t get the whole question out.
Because he’s kissing me again—slow, open-mouthed, full of fire and something heavier, and whatever part of me registered his words can’t seem to process them anymore. Not when his hands are on my waist, moving up toward my aching breasts. Not when his mouth trails down my neck like a prayer.
My skin is hot. My pulse, a drumbeat in my ears. All my thoughts scatter like feathers in a storm.
I don’t know what this is yet. Or what it means. Or how we get from here to whatever might come next.
But I know this:
I’m not alone.
I’m not numb.
And for the first time in a very long time, I don’t want to stop feeling.
Not with him.
Not tonight.
We stumble down the hallway like we’re drunk on each other.
My back hits the wall with a soft thud, and his mouth is on mine again before I can gasp. His hands are everywhere, my waist, the small of my back, the curve of my hip. I arch into him, hungry and half-unraveled.
We make it to the bedroom, leaving Noah’s jeans somewhere lost on the stairs. The bedroom door barely closes behind us before I’m yanking at the buttons on his shirt, cursing softly when I fumble the middle one. He covers my hands with his, stilling them.
