“Of how much I didn’t want you uncomfortable,” I admit. “Of how much I—”
I stop myself, pulse hammering.
She sets her cup down. Slowly.
“Ethan.”
It’s the way she says my name—soft, careful, like she’s holding something fragile—that undoes me.
“I’m not uncomfortable,” she says. “I just… don’t know how to do this either.”
My breath leaves me.
The moment stretches, warm and dangerous.
Her hand brushes mine on the porch railing.
Accidentally.
Not accidentally.
I don’t move.
I don’t breathe.
Then she whispers, barely audible, “Tell me what you were going to say.”
And my resolve fractures clean in half.
Her question hangs in the air between us, fragile and electric.
Tell me what you were going to say.
I should look away. Breathe. Think.
But she’s standing less than a foot from me on this porch, bathed in warm lamplight, staring like she’s trying to read every thought I’ve buried for years.
“Lucky…”
It comes out rougher than I intended.
She leans in the slightest bit—enough to make my pulse spike, enough that I know this isn’t in my head.
I give her one more second to pull back as I put my mug down next to hers.
She doesn’t.
So I close the distance.
It’s soft at first—careful, like we’re both afraid a sudden move might snap whatever fragile thing is forming between us.
But then she presses closer, fingers curling into the front of my shirt, and the kiss deepens all at once.
God.
I’m done for.
Her mouth is warm and eager, tasting faintly of the tea she just made.
