Need.
Love.
Want.
All wrapped together and aimed straight at my chest.
She took a step closer.
I should’ve stepped back.
I didn’t.
Her hands fisted lightly in the front of my sweatshirt like she was anchoring herself. Like she was afraid I might disappear if she let go.
“Tell me to go,” she said. “If that’s what you want. Just—tell me to go.”
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
Because the truth was, I didn’t want her gone.
I wanted her the way you want fire when you’re cold—knowing full well it can burn the house down if you’re not careful.
She leaned in, tentative at first, giving me time to stop her.
I didn’t.
Our mouths met, soft and unsure, rain and breath and memory colliding between us. The kiss deepened instinctively, bodies remembering what our minds tried to forget.
Her hands slid up my neck.
Mine found her waist.
The city blurred around us—the rain, the traffic, the distant sirens—all of it fading until there was only this.
Us.
When we finally broke apart, she rested her forehead against my chest, breathing hard.
“I missed you,” she said.
I closed my eyes.
So had I.
That was the problem.
Because love with her was never simple.
It was beautiful.
And intoxicating.
And dangerous.
And standing there in the rain, holding her while the world still reeled from loss, I knew—deep down—that this moment wasn’t a beginning.
