Something shifted in his expression then—something protective and intent and careful all at once. He reached up, brushing his thumb gently along my jaw, stopping just short of my mouth.
“Can I?” he asked softly.
The question wasn’t just about a kiss. It was about everything. Space. Timing. Trust.
“Yes,” I whispered.
When he leaned in, his lips met mine slowly, reverently, like he was memorizing the feel of me.
The kiss was soft. Unrushed. All warmth and intention.
I melted into it.
His hand stayed at my waist, steady and grounding. Mine slid up his chest to his shoulder, fingers curling there as if anchoring myself to the present moment. To him.
When we pulled back, my forehead rested against his again, both of us breathing a little deeper now.
“That,” I said quietly, “felt different. Like one of those videos that pop up where best friends finally kiss and everyone online is screaming because it’s been obvious forever.”
He smiled faintly. “Good different?”
“Yes,” I said without hesitation. “Safer. Like it wasn’t about proving anything or catching a moment. Just … letting it happen.”
“I don’t want to rush you,” he said. “Or this.”
“I know.”
“For what it’s worth,” he added, his voice low, “I don’t see you as broken. Or tragic. Or anything that needs to be handled carefully.”
I held his gaze. “What do you see?”
“A woman who survived something devastating,” he said. “And still steps forward when it matters.”
Emotion swelled again, but this time it felt steadier. Stronger.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Anytime,” he replied. “And Sophie?”
“Yes?”
“I know you,” he said firmly, his thumb brushing a slow, grounding arc along my arm. “I know how deeply you love. You don’t erase people—you keep them with you. You’ve been carrying Jonesy this whole time. That’s who you are.”
14
WYATT
We shared a cab back to town.
All four of us piled into the back of a minivan taxi that smelled faintly of air freshener and old leather, Beth and Natasha chattering about the night, replaying moments, laughing at inside jokes I wasn't part of yet but appreciated, anyway. Sophie sat beside me, quiet, her hand resting on the seat between us close enough that our fingers brushed when the cab hit bumps in the road.
I didn't say much. Just listened. Watched Charleston slide past the windows—neon signs fading to streetlights, the city settling into its late-night rhythm, restaurants going dark, bars still glowing with the last holdouts of the evening.
Sophie looked calmer now. Steadier. Like telling me about Jonesy had released something she'd been holding too tight for too long, a pressure valve finally opened after years of building.
The cab pulled up to The Palmetto Rose, and Beth and Natasha climbed out first, giving us a moment with exaggerated discretion that made Sophie smile despite everything.
She turned to me, and I could see the question in her eyes before she asked it.
