And something inside me goes dangerously soft.
I turn away before I crumble right there on the patio. “You say that now,” I murmur, “but you didn’t see the kitchen.”
He smirks. “I saw enough.”
I grab the wine bottle and pour us each another glass, except mine overflows a bit because my hand is shaking. “Oops.”
He steps in behind me, taking the bottle gently from my fingers. His chest brushes my back—light, warm, steadying. “Let me.”
It’s nothing, and it’s everything.
He pours, slow and precise, and hands my glass back. Our fingers graze. His linger.
We sit down again, but this time we’re much closer. Not touching—but one inch away from it. Close enough that every movement matters.
The lake goes quiet. Or maybe I just stop hearing it.
I look at him. He looks at me.
And for one long, suspended moment, we don’t move. We don’t breathe. We just… exist in a space that feels like the cliff-edge of a kiss.
He’s the one who finally looks away—barely. Just enough to steady himself.
“Dinner was good,” he says softly.
“You made the dinner,” I remind him, smiling.
“You invited me,” he says.
My heart drops-kicks my ribcage.
“Well,” I whisper, “I’m glad I did.”
His eyes lift to mine again—slow, deliberate.
“So am I.”
The air snaps—charged, sweet, unbearable.
I swirl the wine in my glass, pretending to admire the lake, but my brain is still replaying last night’s kisses like someone hit repeat and walked away.
The thought slips in.
Then out.
Then back in louder.
Just ask him.
I take a sip for courage. It doesn’t help.
So I say it anyway.
“So…” I start lightly, too lightly, like I’m talking about the weather. “When are you planning to kiss me again?”
Ethan goes completely still.
His hand freezes around his glass, jaw tightening just slightly — that little tic he gets when something hits deeper than he wants it to.
