“You don’t get to decide what I’m capable of loving,” I continue. “And you don’t get to shrink yourself because you’re afraid I’ll regret it.”
His grip tightens slightly. “You won’t?”
“No.”
“You won’t wake up one day and decide this was a mistake?”
I slide my hands up his chest, over his shoulders, into his hair. “If I wake up one day and regret something, it won’t be loving you.”
The words settle into him. The resistance is gone.
He kisses me.
His mouth moves slow and deliberate, one hand firm at my waist, the other cradling my jaw. I answer him without holding back. He exhales against my lips, low and rough.
“That’s what I’ve been holding back,” he murmurs.
“Then stop holding.”
A flicker of heat flashes in his eyes. “You sure you want to say that to me?”
“Yes.”
His mouth curves slightly. “Careful.”
I slide my hands down his chest again, testing. “You’re the one who said you’re done bracing.”
His gaze drops to where my fingers linger. “I am.”
“Then show me.”
His hand moves, slow and deliberate, from my waist up my spine, settling at the back of my neck again.
“You don’t get to challenge me like that and expect me to stay calm,” he says quietly.
“Who said I want you calm?”
His breath roughens. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”
“I’m not playing.”
That does it.
He shifts, lifting me just enough to sit me on the edge of the dresser behind me, his body stepping between my knees. His hands stay respectful. Controlled.
But firm.
“I’m not choosing you halfway,” he says, voice low. “If we do this, we do it fully.”
“Good.”
“I won’t pull away tomorrow.”
“Good.”
“I won’t treat you like something fragile.”
“I’m not.”
