"The photo. Of me. How long?"
He's still hard, still fully exposed, and mortified, but he doesn't shy away from the question.
"Since your party," he admits quietly, his eyes locked on mine. "Since the kiss."
"That was over a year ago," I state.
"I know."
My brain short-circuits. It feels like a fuse blowing. "You've had a photo of me for over a year? And you just, you were just?—"
"I'm sorry," he repeats, getting his boxers on finally, though the evidence of his need still strains the thin fabric. "I know this is messed up. I should've thrown it away. I just, I couldn't. Every time I tried, I couldn't."
I walk further into the room, drawn by a strange, magnetic pull. I pick up the photo from where it landed on the bedspread. It's me, laughing at something someone said, before the kiss, before the crushing rejection, back when I still held onto hope.
"You kept this," I say, my voice now low, a thread of wonder woven into the shock. "All this time."
"Yes."
"Why?"
He stares at me like I'm a bomb about to detonate, trying to choose his words carefully, yet desperately. "Because I couldn't let you go, Maya. Even when I knew I should have. Even when I told you we couldn't be together, I kept it. I looked at it. I thought about you constantly."
"You rejected me."
"I know."
"You told me we couldn't because I was Emma's best friend."
"I know," he says again, his voice cracking.
"And you've been keeping my photo and… jerking off to it… for a year?"
He stands, rising slowly from the bed. He's no longer trying to hide, standing there in just his tented boxers, still hard, still utterly wanting. "Yes. Because I've been obsessed with you for years, Maya."
The words hang between us, heavy and impossible:Obsessed. For years.
My mind refuses to process it. I can't reconcile the brutal rejection at my birthday party with the raw confession on his lips right now.
"I don't understand?—"
"Fuck it," he says suddenly, cutting me off, the words a desperate snarl.
Then he crosses the room in three strides, pulls me against him, and kisses me like he's been holding his breath for a year and can't breathe without me.
This isn't like our other kisses. Those were careful, controlled, almost polite, as if we were following a script or an arrangement. This is desperate, consuming. His tongue is in my mouth, his hands are tangled in my hair, and his body is pressed against mine so tightly that I can feel exactly how much he wants me, the evidence of his desire grinding into my stomach.
He tears his mouth away just long enough to whisper, his breath ragged, his eyes searching mine for any sign of resistance. "Is this okay?"
"Yes," I whisper back, sinking into him, clinging to the solid strength of his shoulders.
He walks me backward until my legs hit the side of the bed. We tumble onto it together, his body covering mine. The kiss deepens immediately, turning into something raw and hungry.
"Obsessed with you," he murmurs, his mouth brushing my jawline, trailing fire down my neck. "For years. I've wanted you for so long, I've dreamt of you like this a thousand times."
His words send a white-hot, electrifying heat straight through me. He's not just saying this; I can feel the absolute truth of it in every touch, every desperate kiss, every single movement of his hands as they roam my body.
"Watching you heal," he continues, his voice rough with emotion as he peppers kisses down the column of my throat. "Seeing you take your body back, seeing you become so fiercely strong… You have no idea what that does to me."
