“Don’t apologize for needing someone,” he says.
I lift my head just enough to look at him.
In the dark, his eyes are shadowed. But I can feel them on me. Heavy. Focused.
Too focused.
There’s something in his expression now that wasn’t there earlier. Something barely held in check.
My pulse stutters.
I don’t move away.
Neither does he.
His hand slides from my back to my jaw, slow enough that I could stop him if I wanted to.
I don’t.
His thumb brushes along my cheekbone. Testing.
“Carly,” he says, and my name in his voice is rougher now. Thicker.
I should pull back.
I don’t.
He leans down just slightly.
Just enough.
His mouth finds mine. He pauses there for a heartbeat, his lips resting against mine as if waiting for permission.
The air between us tightens.
When he presses closer, it’s only by a fraction, yet it sends heat sliding through me, low and sudden. My pulse jumps hard enough that I feel it everywhere at once.
He tastes like warmth and restraint.
Like something held back for too long.
My fingers curl into the edge of his cut, grounding myself in the solid weight of him. The world narrows to breath and skin and the steady rise of his chest beneath my palm.
I lean in.
Just enough.
Just enough to say I’m here.
The kiss shifts.
His breath roughens. His hand tightens slightly at my jaw, a silent question, a warning he’s barely keeping contained.
For one suspended second, I feel how easily this could turn into something deeper. How quickly careful could become consuming.
Then he pulls back.
His hand drops. His body shifts back, space snapping between us.
