I didn’t move. Was I even breathing?
"It might’ve started when you asked me to check for ghosts in your closet," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Or when you stepped into the snow in your little sandals… Can you blame me for using that as an excuse to carry you into that visitor center?”
“Not at all.” My chest was so tight that the words barely made it out.
"Or when you fell off those rocks into the water. Or chased that train. But when you left…" he said, shaking his head. "That call. After you hung up, it felt like someone pulled the plug on my whole damn system. Sitting on a plane that night, that might be when I really knew.”
“You left early too?”
“How could I stay without you?”
“Oh.” Just a breath.
His eyes held mine, steady and unguarded.
"So, yeah. I love you. Hope that’s not a problem.”
The timer on the oven started chiming in the kitchen, but I totally ignored it.
"I love you, too," I whispered.
And just like that, we weren’t tiptoeing anymore.
This wasn’t a fling anymore.
This thing between us now wasn’t just because we were the only two people below the age of sixty, or because I was rebounding, or because we both wanted something simple and fun with no strings attached. It was a choice.
We were choosing each other.
On purpose.
His mouth found mine again, hungrier this time—like now that the words were out, he didn’t have to hold back. Like he’d been starving, and I was the only thing that could satisfy him.
His hands slid beneath my hoodie, warm and sure, skimming along my waist, and when he pulled it up over my head, I lifted my arms without a second thought.
“Missed you so much,” he breathed against my lips.
I laughed into the kiss, fumbling with the hem of his T-shirt. “You’re too forking sexy, do you know that?”
He grinned. “I love when you talk dirty to me.”
And then he helped me tug the shirt over his head, but before it even hit the floor, his mouth was on my neck, trailing down to the spot just below my ear.
“You taste even better than I remembered,” he murmured.
My hands tangled in his hair as he kissed lower, lower.
His palms cupped my breasts through my sports bra, thumbs teasing the way he knew I liked it.
“Sweeter,” he whispered, voice low and reverent, like I was something sacred.
I kissed his jaw, his collarbone, anywhere I could reach, drunk on this heat, the way we fit. My hips rocked against his, a slow grind that had him groaning into my mouth.
I was ready to combust—literally and figuratively.
And then...
“Is that…smoke?” he asked, pulling back just enough to sniff the air.
